


Great Glory

by tageryens



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon - Book, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/F, F/M, House Lannister, House Stark, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Injury, Menstruation, Not A Fix-It, Original Character-centric, POV Male Character, POV Original Female Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Pregnancy, Tywin Lannister Being an Asshole, War of the Five Kings, the lannisters being the dramatic idiots we all know and love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29739576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tageryens/pseuds/tageryens
Summary: "Four children were produced between Lord Tywin and his second wife, Lady Marianne," Mollander said, squinting at the yellow pages. "A pair of twins, same as his first wife had provided him, and then another daughter and son." he scoffed. "More bloody Lannisters. Rotten as rest of the lot, I wonder."( The Lannisters are conquering lions, gold their crowns and gold their shrouds. Tywin Lannister spent his life making sure so after his father did everything to make his family a laughing stock. Through violent means and great brutality, the Lord of Casterly Rock made the Lannister name once again admired and feared. Enemies flock to every side of the Lannisters, desiring power or vengeance, each clawing for more but the golden lion pays no attention. After all, the lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep.After his eldest son and heir became a knight of the kingsguard, Tywin Lannister remarried. He refused to let Tyrion inherit his legacy, not when he despises him so dearly. So he wedded Marianne Araeris— a Dornish lady and the daughter of a wealthy and noble family. Four children were produced before the Lady Marianne’s death, each as golden as their father with claws just as sharp. )
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. ILARIA LANNISTER I

**Author's Note:**

> so i have finally gotten around to rewriting this story — and even tho not much is changed in the first chapter, the rest definitely is changed.
> 
> this fic is based on the what if of tywin remarrying and each of the four povs are of the kids from tywin's second marriage. this is based off of the books, the only thing i really changed is that everyone is a year older.
> 
> i'm going to try to update once a week on saturdays. enjoy and leave a review!

**ILARIA WATCHED THE SUMMER SNOWS FALL THROUGH THE OPEN CARRIAGE WINDOW, WHITE FLAKES GENTLY FALLING TO THE AWAITING GROUND.** She had never seen snow before, nor had she ever felt such a coldness that sent shivers down her spine. She let out a small breath, the puff of air escaping her mouth and becoming visible to her eyes. Ilaria giggled, as the puff of cold air reminded her of a drawing of a dragon that she had seen when she was at Casterly Rock; a large, monstrous dragon blowing out a billowy puff of smoke.

"Why are you laughing?" Tommen asked, keeping his voice a low whisper so only she could hear. He was perched right beside her, while his sister and mother sat across from them.

"No reason," Ilaria hummed, ruffling the younger boy's curls. "I have just become very bored of traveling."

They had been traveling for nearly a month, leaving the Red Keep to head north to where Winterfell lay, and House Stark awaited their arrival. Ilaria struggled to contain an audible sigh. Their party was slow, as King Robert's procession traveled with them; nearly a hundred people, all anxious to arrive at their destination so that they may finally rest their weary feet. She was sharing a carriage with her half-sister, Queen Cersei, and her two youngest children, Myrcella and Tommen. Ilaria had spent most of the journey in a much smaller carriage with her and Cersei's ladies, though she wished to ride a horse instead, alongside her brothers. She had never cared much for riding but she figured that Damon and Tyrion would make for better company than that she was stuck with.

But a few days ago, Tommen had requested that she sit with him so they could entertain each other. She did not mind, as she enjoyed the sweet boy's company and his sister's too, though their eldest brother was exempt from that same opinion. Cersei had merely rolled her eyes at the new addition to their carriage, not speaking a single word to her, but allowing her to join them nonetheless.

Ilaria closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how much longer they'd be stuck in the carriage until they'd reach their destination. After the sudden death of Jon Arryn, the King's Hand, Robert had decided to make the long journey north. Ilaria was no fool; she immediately understood the only reason that the Stag King had decided such a thing was to ask Eddard Stark to be his new Hand, as the two were childhood friends and war companions from what she heard. She had no doubt that Lord Stark would not expect such a thing, even if he was a close friend of the King's; a man with his reputation surely would have no desire to leave his home. Though, she thought it would be an interesting sight to see a Northerner in the South, as a lone wolf in the midst of creatures who knew how to fare under the heat of the gleaming sun surely would not last long.

"Ilaria," Tommen nudged her knee. "We're here!"

Ilaria's eyes fluttered open as the carriage unlocked and the door flew wide open. Cersei stepped out of the carriage first, with Tommen and Myrcella following after her. She waited a moment, allowing the Queen and her two youngest children to make their grand entrance before gathering her skirts and stepping down from the carriage. She accepted the gloved hand that appeared in front of her, clutching onto it until she settled on the snow-covered grass.

Ilaria stepped forward, pulling her wool cloak tightly around her shoulders as a useless attempt to bat the unfamiliar cold that surrounded her. Her dark eyes scanned the lineup in front of her; seven people stood tall, garbed in leather and fur. _So these are the infamous Starks_ , she narrowed her eyes at the Northerners, oddly curious by the Starks that her goodbrother was so eager to see. Ilaria had never met the wolves of Winterfell who lived so isolated from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, hidden in the North behind their snow and grey castles.

The oldest man in the line stepped forward, a man that she quickly assumed to be the Warden of the North. Lord Stark was shorter than she expected, with dark grey eyes and a beard that made him look older than he likely was. There was an air of wariness around him, with his rigid posture and stony eyes. She had imagined him to be bigger and more rugged, like the few other Northern lords she had met on this procession. Lord Manderly had been loud and joyful, and Lord Ryswell had been bold and blunt. Ilaria had assumed Lord Stark would hold himself in the same way.

Lord Stark gave the King a nod, respectfully and much less crass as she expected a Northerner to be. "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

Robert laughed and embraced him, like a long lost brother before moving to hug Lady Stark the same way. Cersei and her children came forward to greet the Starks as well, and Lord Stark did not hesitate before bending down to kiss the Queen's ring.

Ilaria examined the rest of the Northerners as the introductions continued. Lady Stark, unlike her husband, was a Southerner; a trout of House Tully. Her skin was pale and fair and her hair cascaded down her back in red curls. Her sharp blue eyes framed her comely face. Most of her children took after their mother, including the eldest son and daughter, and the two youngest boys. Only a scrawny girl with a long face, half-covered by her tousled brown hair resembled their father.

The eldest girl — that Ilaria knew would surely grow into a beauty like her mother — gave Joffrey a shy smile, and the boy sent a smug one in return. Ilaria rolled her eyes at her halfwit of nephew, who was far too arrogant for his own good, and felt a twinge of pity for the young girl who was quite clearly infatuated with him now. _It's good fortune that he is comely,_ she idly thought, _otherwise he would have no decent qualities._

She wasn't the only one who noticed the exchange. The eldest Stark boy took his eyes from his sister to glare at the golden-headed prince. Winterfell's heir was a handsome boy, with dark auburn curls and a sharp jaw. He did not resemble his father, having none of his sire's features; no grey eyes, brown hair, or long face. She gave him a small glance before moving her gaze back to the King.

"Take me down to your crypts, Eddard," King Robert suddenly declared, resting a hand on Lord Stark's shoulders. "I'd like to pay my respects."

Cersei rested a hand on her husband's arm. "We had a long journey, my love, surely the dead can wait."

The King shrugged his arm away and shot the Queen a sharp glare. Cersei stepped back, her eyes becoming cold and dark, though they seemed to warm when Jaime placed an encouraging hand on her shoulder. Lord Stark gave the golden Queen an apologetic look before walking towards the dark crypts with the King strolling after him.

With the absence of the King and Lord Stark, the formalities dissolved ever-so-slightly, allowing Ilaria to walk towards her nephews and niece. As she usually did, she gave Myrcella and Tommen a smile and promptly ignored Joffrey. She ruffled Tommen's hair, noticing the icy white flakes stuck to his golden curls. "You have snow in your hair."

"So do you," Tommen pointed out with a grin. "It looks pretty."

"It does," Myrcella agreed, letting out a wistful sigh. "I wished I had dark hair like yours or father's."

Myrcella — and her brothers for that matter — had inherited their mother's Lannister features; yellow curls, pale skin, and sharp emerald green eyes. Ilaria was a stark contrast from the rest of her family, as she had glossy black hair and golden skin that she inherited from her Dornish mother. Despite being a Lannister and having Tywin Lannister as a father, the only thing she inherited from her father was the slope of her nose and his name. Same as her two brothers; only her younger sister, Valora, seemed to inherit the golden hair and green eyes of their father's.

"And lose your pretty golden locks?" Ilaria ruffled Myrcella's hair, making the younger girl squeal in protest. "Do not ever wish such things."

"Don't mess with Myrcella's hair, Ilaria." Cersei snapped, smoothing down Myrcella's hair. "The last thing that is needed is for the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms to look like a common street rat." she said before turning back to her conversation with Jaime, their voices too low for Ilaria to hear.

"Apologies, Your Grace." Ilaria said but Cersei ignored her. She lifted her hands in surrender, backing away from Cersei and her children as Joffrey joined his mother. The young princling shot her a smug glare as he stood beside his mother and younger siblings. Out of all of her kin, Joffrey Baratheon was the one she disliked the most on the basis that she found him to be a foolish and bratty little boy who would no doubt grow to be a lumbering drunk like his father. It was her hope that Cersei would be smart enough to wed him to a clever wife with a powerful family to balance out the incompetence that Joffrey held, or his reign would certainly be lackluster. "Joffrey," she said, doing all she could not to roll her eyes at her nephew. "And how was your travels?"

Joffrey shrugged. "As well as can be expected in this frozen wasteland. All this ice and snow — Damon nearly fell off his horse!" Joffrey laughed at that. "He turned out fine and it was an amusing sight to be seen."

Ilaria gave Joffrey a pointed stare before rolling her eyes and turning her gaze to the courtyard, trying to spot Damon. "And where is my brother?" she thought Damon would be with Jaime, as he was his squire but clearly he wandered off somewhere.

"With Tyrek last I saw." Joffrey paused. "Or with Lancel, I don't know. I'm not his keeper."

 _Unhelpful as usual,_ she idly thought. "I'll look for him myself." Ilaria declared, walking away from her nephews and nieces. She scanned the courtyard as she walked, trying to find her younger brother. She managed to spot both Tyrek and Lancel before giving up, deciding that Damon must have wandered off.

"I thought only the Lannisters wore golden lions on their dresses?"

Ilaria tore her eyes away from her search and looked over at the two Stark girls, who hadn't realized they had spoken much louder than they had meant to. She knew that the two were speaking of the golden lion carefully stitched along the hem of her crimson gown, peeking out beneath her warm cloak. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at comments that were to come; the ones that always came. _People are as predictable in the North as they are in the South,_ she decided, turning her eyes from the two Stark sisters, but continuing to listen to the words they were exchanging.

The eldest Stark girl scowled at her younger sister. "They do. Lady Ilaria is a Lannister; the Queen's younger sister."

"She doesn't look like a Lannister _or_ the Queen."

"Her mother was Tywin Lannister's second wife and a Dornish lady," the girl hissed. "She must look like her."

"Eavesdropping, are we?" a new voice said.

Ilaria looked towards the source of the new voice, standing four feet tall from the ground. She gave her older brother a sardonic grin. "Is it really eavesdropping if they are whispering about me, Tyrion?"

"I'm afraid it still is." Tyrion snorted and Ilaria's smile warmned.

But that smile soon faded away as another breeze danced against her skin. Ilaria shivered, pulling at her cloak. "It's bloody cold here," she complained loudly as Jaime left Cersei's side and walked towards her and Tyrion. The cold was foreign to her and as were the white flakes falling from the sky. She had been excited to see the snow at first but after the exhausting journey all she wished for is some heat.

"It's the North," Jaime pointed out, seeming amused at her shivering. He always seemed to be amused by whatever she did, making her feel like a bumbling child. "Of course it is cold, with the summer snow still falling."

"I thought you were eager to see the North and the snow," Tyrion commented.

"I am!" Ilaria retorted, rubbing her arms. "I just did not expect it to be this cold and I am terribly exhausted after that awful journey."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Then you'd better find your chambers and freshen up. We have a long stay ahead of us."

"As soon as my ladies decide to grace us with their presence, I will do that," Ilaria grumbled, glancing around in hopes of catching a glimpse of her ladies-in-waiting. "Those girls seem to be taking their time."

As if on cue, her ladies trudged towards her with weary feet and tired eyes, but thankfully with a grace as not to embarrass her. Her longest standing lady, Emilee, was a Lannister of Lannisport and a distant cousin of hers. She was an unwed and bawdy girl of seven-and-ten, and despite being obviously tired from the long journey, her golden curls still gleamed brightly under the summer snow. There was not a single wrinkle on the violet gown she had been given, looking more like a Lannister of Casterly Rock than Ilaria could ever hope for. Ilaria had known Emilee since she was a girl of seven years and Emilee of eight years, and the golden-haired girl was her first proper companion. Her septa thought that having a lady-in-waiting would help curb her more improper tendencies that she exhibited as a child, but all it did was force Ilaria to learn how to clean up whatever mess Emilee would constantly find herself in. The other girl had been more of a menace than Ilaria could ever be, even more so now as a woman grown.

The red-haired girl with delicate but sharp features gripping on Emilee's left arm was Ceria Clifton, or Ria as she was commonly called. The only reason why a girl who belonged to a house of landed knights became her lady was because Ria's Farman mother was one of Cersei's ladies when she was a child, before she was wed and spouted out a dozen-or-so bumbling brats. She remembered how insipid and utterly insufferable the red-haired girl had been when she had first met her, it surprised her how soon the girl became witty and something of notice, holding many useful talents.

Ria dropped into a curtsy, and Emilee quickly did the same. It was an unnecessary gesture, but as the Queen's sister, many unnecessary gestures seemed to happen. "My lady."

"What took you all so long?" Ilaria questioned, parting ways from her half-brothers and walking towards a space in the courtyard that seemed devoid of listening ears. "I have been waiting."

Emilee's lips curved into a smirk, sending a mischievous glance towards Ria. "Someone refused to leave the carriage. I had to lure Ria out since she refused to come out on her own."

Ria glared at her. "Oh, bugger off!" she spat, furiously rubbing her arms up and down. "It is freezing, I can feel my bones clattering inside of me."

"It will be warmer inside," Ilaria reminded, annoyed at Ria's antics bubbling up inside of her. "Warmth we would already feel if not for you beening so stubborn."

Ria averted her gaze, having the decency to look ashamed for inconvencing Ilaria. Emilee shuddered. "Enough of that. Let's go inside to our chambers, hopefully holding warmth. I am freezing here, and this is supposed to be summer from what I have heard."

"These are summer snows," Ilaria muttered before raising her voice. "Yes, let's find our chambers. Lead the way, Emilee."

"Why would I know where our chambers are?" Emilee asked, rubbing her arms. "I've never been here before, you know that."

"You suggested we go to our chambers."

"Because I thought you knew where it was."

"Why would I know where it is? I have never been here before either!"

"Excuse me," a delicate voice said, catching Ilaria's attention. It was one of the Stark girls from earlier, the one with the bright red hair and sweet smile. _The one Joffrey was smirking at,_ Ilaria remembered, _she must already be infatuated with him._ "Lady Ilaria, I would be more than happy to show you and your ladies to your chambers if you wish so."

"Thank you…?" Ilaria's voice trailed off as she tried to recall what the Stark girl's name might be.

Ria leaned towards her ear. "Sansa," she whispered.

"Lady Sansa," Ilaria repeated, clapping her hands. "Thank you for the generous offer. Yes, if you don't mind."

Sansa beamed. "Follow me, my lady."

Sansa turned around, practically skipping into the castle. Ilaria resisted the urge to roll her eyes and followed the young girl, her ladies trailing after her as they entered the surprisingly warm walls of the castle. Emilee walked ahead of her, engaging the pretty Stark girl in a conversation about Winterfell while Ria linged behind with her.

"The King plans to wed her to Prince Joffrey." Ria uttered, careful to make sure no one besides Ilaria heard her.

Ilaria raised an eyebrow. "He does?"

Ria nodded. "To connect House Baratheon and House Stark, just as it was supposed to be many years ago, with him and the dead Lady Lyanna."

"It's a waste of a betrothal," Ilaria muttered. The North is hardly ripe for alliances in the South and Joffrey's hand in marriage could be used for much better alliances than a region that is already steadily loyal. "I do wonder why my sister would agree to such a betrothal. She despises the ghost of Lady Lyanna, and she would certainly stop any attempt to recreate King Robert's relationship to Lyanna through her favorite son."

"It's the King's order, what can she do?" Ria paused. "Besides, betrothals fall though every day, do they not?"

"They do," Ilaria agreed. "I'm sure we will not see this marriage go through. Do I want to know how you manage to get information on the King's private matters?"

"I am quite good at what I do." Ria told her solemnly, stopping as they approached a chamber door.

"That's why I keep you around." Ilaria said before turning her attention to Sansa, who looked at her expectantly. "Are these my chambers, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa nodded vigorously. "Yes."

Ilaria tilted her head, taking a closer look at the Northern girl. Sansa Stark was beautiful; in fact, she was far more beautiful than a girl of two-and-ten ought to be. She and Joffrey would absolutely look as a king and queen should, just as she imagined Cersei and King Robert must have looked on their wedding day before the years of wine slowly took away their bright beauty, leaving Robert fat and lazy and Cersei with a beauty still, but with edges sharper than any blade. She just hoped for Sansa's sake that she would lose that wide-eyed innocence of hers; the Red Keep and it's courtiers care little for innocence.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa," Ilaria politely said, taking a step forward. "May you escort my ladies to their chambers?"

Ria frowned. "We can keep you company, if you wish."

Ilaria waved her concerns away. "No, I need my rest before the festivities of tonight. Go to your chambers and get some rest too."

"As you wish, my lady." Ria nodded reluctantly and followed after Sansa, Emilee trailing after them as they giggled all the way down the hall. Ilaria sighed, opening the heavy wooden door and entering her chambers.

The room was plain compared to the ones in the Red Keep or Casterly Rock, and held a modest bed and dresser, with a large bath. What surprised her was the heat; a warmth that was so different from the crisp cold that lingered outside. Ilaria closed the door behind her, scanning the chambers. She walked towards the featherbed, taking off her red cloak and carefully folding it before placing it on the bed, as not to tear the fabric. The wool cloak, dyed a dark and rare shade of red, was her favorite piece of clothing item to wear. It belonged to her grandmother, Jeyne Marband, before her; a gift from Tytos Lannister to his wife on their wedding night, and a gift that Ilaria claimed as her own when she was ten. She wore the wool cloak more often than not, especially to shield her from any cold.

Ilaria turned her head, giving her chambers another once-over, her eyes landing on the wide window on the wall across the door. Curious, she walked towards the window and peered outside. From where she stood, Ilaria had a clear view of the courtyards, and the stray men who were wandering around below. There she managed to catch a glimpse of Damon's dark hair and red doublet as her brother walked around the courtyard with their cousin, Tyrek. She lightly touched the window, tracing the frosted edges that slowly melted with the warmth of her touch.

Her brother's tendency to wander has always worried her, more so with his binding friendship with Tyrek, who was a fool, and Joffrey, who was always causing some sort of trouble. Damon was more often passive and sensible than not but he was also more eager to indulge in mischief if one of his half-wit companions convinced him too. Her younger twin, Loren, was the same, except he was the one convincing others to enjoy some mischief. It was a trait that their father despised.

The door creaked open and Ilaria turned around to see her handmaiden, a scrawny and small girl by the name of Iris, curtsying, her dark hair tied into a messy braid. "M'lady."

"Hello, Iris," Ilaria greeted the girl, too tired to scold her for showing up late. No doubt she got lost in the wide halls of Winterfell. "Run me a bath, would you?"

"Yes, m'lady." Iris nodded, scurrying over to the tub. Ilaria turned her gaze back to the windows, watching the snow drift towards the ground as she waited for the sky to turn dark.

It wasn't long before nightfall came and the festivities of the night began.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled to the brim with drunken lords and ladies, the strong smell of roasted meat and fresh bread encompassing the room. Ilaria stood beside her brothers, hovering outside the hall to peek in. She would have rather been with her ladies, seated amongst her nephews and niece by the Stark children, but Cersei had insisted that her siblings make a grand entrance after the Starks and royal family did theirs. Ilaria hated the idea but her half-sister refused to budge. "How long would it be before it's appropriate for me to leave?" she muttered, quiet enough for only her brothers to hear.

Tyrion mulled her words over. "An hour I suppose, then you can make up some excuse and leave."

Jaime shook his head, leaning against a wooden post. "I would make that two hours. We don't want to offend these Northerners."

"It's a feast, Ilaria." Damon mumbled, pulling down the sleeves of his black tunic. Like Ilaria, Damon had not inherited the typical Lannister looks of their father but the coloring of their mother; the copper skin, the dark hair, and even darker eyes. "It's not your execution, you will survive if you stay through the entire thing."

Ilaria ignored him. "Do you think I could find a way to not attend at all?" she asked, trailing her gaze over the rowdy crowd in the Great Hall, loud and drunk. She never liked big feasts and she liked having so much attention on her even less, which is what she nervously awaited; all eyes would be on her when she would make the entrance with her brothers as Cersei had insisted. As Cersei always said, Ilaria was the crown prince's aunt and the queen's sister, which required a certain type of protocol and a long list of duties to abide by. Ilaria on the other hand, figured that her sister just wanted to show off the Lannister glory while she was forced to wear Baratheon colors.

It was slightly ironic then, how Ilaria chose not to wear the Lannister gold and red, but the grey and white colors of House Stark; a very deliberate choice she made. Her bodice was almost the exact same shade of grey as the direwolf on the Stark's sigil and red leaves vaguely resembling those of a weirwood tree were embroidered along the hem of her dress. Each time she had visited a great house, or those of great importance and wealth, she had made sure to wear their colors as a sign of reverence, even if that wasn't her intention. A subtle sign of rebellion and protest to Cersei's insistence to make a grand entrance, she wore the gown proudly, imitating the North's colours.

Despite the dress resembling the North, it wasn't properly suited for the iciness of it. The plunging neckline made her chest flush with the cold, and her arms prickled with goosebumps under the sheer fabric of her sleeves. The entire dress was made of soft silk, expensive and a suitable fabric for the heat of King's Landing, but certainly not that of Winterfell. _I truly underestimated the cold,_ Ilaria thought as she shivered beside Tyrion. She almost regretted not wearing her cloak to keep her warm, though she had purposely left it in her chambers in the first place; the crimson red of her beloved cloak was certainly that of House Lannister, when the sole purpose of her dress was to show respect towards House Stark.

Tyrion noticed her trembling, and gave her a knowing look. "I told you to pack warmer clothes."

"I faintly recall that," Ilaria said dryly, rubbing her arms up and down in an attempt to bring the heat back into them.

"It is called the bloody north for a reason," he mused. "It is not known for its warmth."

"Yes, you were very right, and I am very wrong and cold," Ilaria conceded with a roll of her eyes. "Is that what you want to hear?"

Tyrion smiled. "I do love being told that I am right."

"Perhaps that is because you do not hear it often," Ilaria retorted, making Jaime laugh. He quickly stopped his laughter when Ilaria turned her attention to him. "Jaime, give me your cloak."

Jaime frowned. "Why should I do that? Why shouldn't I let you learn your lesson by freezing?"

"Because I am a lady and your younger sister, and I happen to be very cold!" Ilaria told him, shooting him a pointed glare. "I know chivalry is something you should know very well, so I shouldn't have to remind you that offering your cloak to someone in need is the knightly thing to do!"

"You're hardly a lady; more of a menace," Jaime grumbled, stubbornly crossing his arms across his chest. "Damon, give her your cloak."

"Then I'll be cold," Damon objected, tightening his wool cloak around his arms. "And I remembered to pack warmer clothes."

"Don't be smug," Ilaria said, causing Damon to grin in response. She rolled her eyes, wondering if there was anything more loathsome than the arrogance of a boy of three-and-ten years. Ilaria turned her gaze back to her eldest brother and remembered that there was. "Jaime?"

Jaime shook his head. "Then ask Tyrion for his."

"His cloak was made to fit him, it's too small for me."

Tyrion sighed. "I thought you were above small jokes."

Ilaria shrugged. "I usually am, but I am feeling uncharacteristically petty. Perhaps because you rubbed my lack of warm clothes on my face."

Jaime snorted. "Uncharacteristically? Dear sister, pettiness is your foremost trait."

Ilaria scowled, becoming more and more annoyed. "Just give me your cloak! I'm not sure why you are so protective of it. It's not as if you haven't already disgraced it," she muttered, the ease and amusement on Jaime's face slipping away for a moment. "I'm sure I would wear it with more honor than you."

"Ilaria!" Damon scolded but she ignored him, her gaze remaining on Jaime.

Jaime glared at her but took off his white cloak nonetheless, handing it over to her. "Just take it."

"You two never really answered my question. How long do you think I must be here?" Ilaria asked, wrapping Jaime's white cloak around her. "One hour? Two? Or should I slip out before it even begins?"

"You don't want to be rude," Jaime drawled, earning a snicker from Tyrion. "Cersei was very insistent on what she wanted."

Ilaria rolled her eyes. "Others take Cersei," she spat. It was bad enough that Cersei was being more neurotic than usual, and Ilaria couldn't find it in herself to care what her sister would or would not like. She turned her attention to Robb. The young man was standing behind his parents, Cersei and Robert, with Myrcella hanging off his arm as Cersei had previously instructed. "If she wants me to make an entrance, I will; the _first_ entrance"

Tyrion's eyes traced to where her gaze landed. "Before her children and taking Myrcella's place on Robb Stark's arm?" he asked. "She won't like that."

"Cersei doesn't like anything," Ilaria pointed out, knowing how particular and not easily pleased her sister was. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile; it would bring some joy to a joyless night to watch as her sister would have to stand beside Robert in silence, unable to show any irritation that Ilaria would certainly cause. "Besides, Myrcella won't mind. I'm sure she would rather be standing next to the other Stark boy,"

"You are doing this simply to annoy Cersei?" Damon laughed. "Jaime is right; you are extraordinarily petty." he said, earning a snicker from Jaime and a bark of laughter from Tyrion.

Ilaria huffed, turning her head to walk away. "Idiots," she muttered under breath, loud enough for her brothers to hear.

"Kind words, sister." Jaime called out, but Ilaria didn't bother to reply, and instead fixed her attention on Myrcella, whom she was now standing behind.

Ilaria placed a hand on Myrcella's shoulder, grabbing the attention of the younger girl. "Myrcella," Ilaria murmured, drawing a stare from Robb Stark; one she ignored. "Do you mind being escorted by Brandon over there?"

Myrcella cocked her head. "Why?"

"Just a little favor to me," Ilaria smiled, knowing very well she couldn't tell Myrcella that she was feeling spiteful and wanted to annoy Cersei; such a thing would not set a good impression for the princess of the realm. "Please."

Mycella gave her a knowing look, as if she knew there was more than what was said. Despite Tommen being her favorite out of Cersei's children, Ilaria had always thought that Myrcella was the smartest, even with being so young. The girl was quiet and observant, and so very unlike her parents. A true princess of the realm.

Myrcella sighed, slipping her arm out of Robb Stark's. "If you insist, this means that you must go hawking with me."

Ilaria smiled, gently squeezing Myrcella's shoulder before letting go. "Of course, sweetling, and thank you."

Myrcella beamed at her, full of a sweetness and genuineness that Cersei was incapable of, before walking away towards the other Stark boy. She whispered something to Brandon Stark, earning a confused look from the boy before he gave her his arm.

Ilaria turned her head back to Robb, who had been staring at her with curiosity and amusement. "Was there any particular reason for that?"

"None that concerns you, my lord." she sweetly replied, smoothing the skirt of her gown.

Robb cocked his head and extended out his arm. "Lady Ilaria, am I correct?"

Ilaria warily glanced at his arm before looping her arm through his. "Your guess is correct."

Robb didn't say anything, only giving her a once over. His eyes trailed over her thin dress and Jaime's cloak. "You've never been to the North before, have you?"

"Did my dress and brother's white cloak tell you that?" Ilaria gave him a refined smile that she had perfected over the years. "Your home is lovely, though."

"I do hope the North is treating you well."

"I am not quite used to this coldness, but watching the summer snowfall is a beautiful sight," Ilaria admitted. "It's surprisingly quaint."

"Quaint?" Robb stifled a laugh. "I don't think anyone has ever described the North as quaint."

"I'm sure it's more harsh in the winter, but for now, it's quaint," Ilaria said, in a rather mocking tone. "Much different than King's Landing."

"How is that?"

She could think of a million ways King's Landing was different; lighter clothing, more knights, less vulgar guards, less blunt folks, and less pretty whores, as Tyrion had complained to her earlier. But none of those seemed quite like the right thing to say. "Less snow."

"That must be no fun at all; the snow is the best part of Winterfell."

"It's pretty to look at, but I'd imagine it would be difficult to live with."

"It can be, but there would be no snow fights, and I have always loved having snow fights with my siblings," Robb told her, smiling to himself, as though he were reminiscing on fond memories.

Ilaria furrowed her brow. "What are snow fights?"

"It's when you make small balls of snow in your hands and throw it at someone else," Robb explained. "It's much more fun than it sounds."

"I doubt that," Ilaria muttered, tearing her gaze away from Robb to stare through the open doors of the Great Hall. She could still feel Robb's stare on her, burning holes into her skin. It was distracting and irritating. "Why are you staring?"

"No reason, just admiring your dress," Robb quickly said. "Lovely colors."

Ilaria looked down at her gown, the grey and white colors of House Stark staring back at her. "Think of it as a gesture of goodwill from House Lannister."

"Your gesture of goodwill is acknowledged."

Ilaria just gave a dry smile in return, devoid of any humor. "I think it's time to go inside. Lead the way, my lord."

First came Lord Stark, escorting Cersei on his arm. The Northern lord was frigid and stiff while the Queen glided through the Great Hall with ease, a perfected smile on her red lips. _Cersei always knew how to make people love her,_ Ilaria idly thought as Lord Stark led Cersei to her seat on the raised platform, right above the table Ilaria was supposed to be seated at, _she ought to become a mummer with the farce she's able to put on._

Next came the King, with Lady Stark on his arm, walking as if he was already in his cups. The littlest Stark boy, a child named Rickon, trailed after his mother, waddling with as much dignity as a child of three could muster.

Ilaria and Robb followed after them. Ilaria grimaced at the stares and the brazen attitudes of the drunk men and women. Robb grinned widely at the scene before him, but she supposed he would be more comfortable, unlike her; these were mostly his people, after all. He guided her to the table under the raised platform before taking a seat next to his littlest brother, and Ilaria took a seat next to her ladies, who were already waiting for her.

Cersei gritted her teeth when she saw Ilaria come out before her own children, and Ilaria mustered up the sweetest smile she could plaster on her face and directed it at her sister.

Myrcella and the second eldest Stark boy followed after them. Myrcella was smiling shyly at young Brandon, who was more focused on the scene unfolding before him, smiling by the drunken antics of all the men.

Sansa Stark and Joffrey came after; Joffrey with his signature smug smile etched onto his face, and Sansa gazing at him as if he hung the moon and stars, both looking like the future king and queen they would be. She gave the two a closer look, pondering on how Ria told her how the King wished to connect House Baratheon and House Stark through the marriage of Joffrey and Sansa. It's obviously an attempt to replicate Robert's match to Lyanna Stark that he feels he was robbed of, Ilaria thought to herself, it is quite pathetic, pining over a dead girl even after fifteen years and trying to recreate such a relationship through his son.

Ilaria averted her eyes as the rest of the Stark children, Tommen, and her brothers flooded through the wooden doors of the Great Hall. Picking up her cup, her dark eyes focused on the redness of her wine. Her ladies were speaking amongst themselves, knowing better than to bother her during feasts. She had never been fond of a large feast, or the drunken men or gossiping women; it was too suffocating, and she could never fully be at ease.

She only looked up from her wine once Tommen plopped down on the seat next to her, excitedly tugging her sleeve. "Ilaria! Ilaria!"

She put down her cup, quickly scanning the meal that the serving wench had placed down on the table before looking down at Tommen, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yes, Tommen?"

"I'm going to spar with Bran tomorrow!" The young boy happily said, his cheeks flushed red. "With wooden swords, so Mother won't be too worried."

Ilaria reached for a piece of warm bread, putting one on her plate and one on Tommen's. When the boy got excited, he had a tendency to forget to eat. "You better knock the Stark boy to the ground."

Tommen shrugged. "Bran is older than me. He's nine, and he's played with swords before. But I don't care if I lose; I want to have fun."

"It's good to have fun, but it's better to win," Ilaria said. She looked towards Bran Stark, who was sitting between both his brothers across the table. "Why don't you go speak to Bran and make a new friend?"

Tommen looked at his feet, suddenly shy. "I don't want to be a bother."

"You, a bother?" Ilaria nudged her young nephew, making him smile slightly. Tommen had always been a bashful, tender-hearted boy, too timid to speak to other children to make friends, and instead preferred to spend time with his cats. It was one thing she and Tommen had in common; neither of them had many friends, though Tommen had so few because of his shyness, while Ilaria never cared to make any at all. "You can never be a bother. These Northerners would be lucky to spend any time with you."

Tommen grinned at her, standing up from his seat. "I'll go speak to him."

Ilaria gave him an encouraging smile as he walked towards Bran. Robb rose from his seat and offered it to Tommen, who immediately sat down and launched into a conversation with Bran, little Rickon blabbing something. Ilaria glanced at the rest of the table, her eyes lingering on Joffrey and Sansa conversing. The red haired girl smiled brightly at the prince; it would be only moments before their fathers announced their betrothal and the Great Hall would cheer for their future king and queen. Her eyes moved to Myrcella and Arya Stark, the latter grumpily playing with the food on her plate as Myrcella tried to engage her in a conversation. She felt a stab of pity for Myrcella, for being forced to deal with such a sour girl. She glanced at her ladies next as the musicians began to play a soothing and serene song. Ria and another girl she didn't recognize were in the midst of a heated conversation about the Night's Watch, with Emilee throwing in an outlandish comment every few moments or so from what Ilaria could hear.

Damon was sitting further from her, besides Tyrion and their cousin Tyrek, Jaime curiously missing. Tyrek was dramatically waving his hands, telling some ridiculous and overexaggerated story. All his waving made him hit a mug of wine out of a serving wench's tray, the wine falling to the floor. Tyrek covered his mouth in surprise and Damon doubled over with laughter.

Ilaria rocked her cup of wine, focusing on the redness of the liquid and counting the minutes until it would be appropriate to make her excuses and leave. _Seven Hells,_ how she despised grand feasts! There were always too many people forced into one space, all acting rowdy and bawdy due to the wine in their cups. She hated being forced to speak to people she didn't care about and loathed having to act as though she wouldn't rather be anywhere else than the suffocating hall. Feasts were always a miserable affair for her and this was made even worse after weeks of long and exhausting traveling.

"Lady Ilaria," Robb Stark murmured as he slipped into Tommen's former seat, reaching for the jug of wine to fill his cup, "Hello again."

Ilaria glanced at him, her finger gripping on the handle of her wine. "You must know that the polite thing to do is to ask if the seat is available before sitting down."

Robb lifted his hands in defense. "Is the seat taken?"

"No," Ilaria grudgingly admitted.

"Then it seems that it's alright that I sit," Robb pointed out, leaning back in his seat. "May I ask something that has the potential to be offensive?"

Ilaria gave him a strange look. "Why do I think you are going to ask no matter what I say?" she asked, taking another sip of her wine.

"Are you always this prickly? Or is that just the cold?"

Ilaria choked on her wine, shoting Robb a look of disbelief and scoffing. "And you are impolite!" she exclaimed.

Robb shrugged. "Sometimes, but I've also had a cup of wine and Theon always told me that I couldn't hold my drink, so perhaps that's the reason behind my impoliteness."

"You try being cheerful after weeks of traveling to a cold place that you clearly did not properly pack for," she grumbled, gesturing towards her dress. "Makes it difficult to provide anyone with good company."

"I suppose I would be glowering too."

Ilaria glared at him, wondering if he was mocking her. She loathed people mocking her. "And besides, I am not fond of grand feasts."

"What's not to like?" Robb asked. "The food, the dancing, the laughter?"

"The drunken men, the yells and hollering," Ilaria listed out, only a few reasons of why she has no love for grand feasts. "An enclosed room full of too many people. If there were a fire, we'd all be doomed."

Robb snorted at the part about the fire. "Now you're just focusing on the negatives,"

"Quite easy when the negatives outweigh the positives."

Robb laughed as if Ilaria said something amusing. But from his cheerful laughter and the music playing throughout the Great Hall, the feast became slightly more bearable. "You prefer to be by your lonesome, then?"

Ilaria raised an eyebrow. "You do not?"

"I like good company."

"So would I, if I ever found any," Ilaria sweetly said, the falsity in her tone very clear.

That didn't offend Robb, and instead only made him grin wider. "Very high standards."

"Incredibly high," Ilaria agreed, an unwanted smile tugging on the corner of her lips. "Almost touching the clouds."

"I ought to get a dragon then," Robb solemnly said. "Grey Wind could use some company."

Ilaria snickered before quickly regaining her composure, not wishing for Robb to see that he might have made her laugh, especially not after the fuss she made. She focused on her cup of wine instead, sloshing the red liquid around in the cup, focusing on the redness of the ale. Another song began to play, this time an upbeat and ribald one. Ilaria smiled the slightest bit at the song choice; the Bear and the Maiden Fair. She had always liked the song, despite the vulgar and crude lyrics.

Robb stood from the table, extending his hand towards her. "Would you like to dance then, Lady Ilaria?"

"I don't dance," Ilaria said quickly, cringing at the bluntness of her words. "I mean, I don't dance very well. My septa always scolded me on my dancing skills and how I could not glide properly."

Robb laughed. "The dance I'm speaking of has less gliding and more running and spinning till your blood is boiling."

"I don't run or spin either."

Robb let his hand drop to the side. "That's a shame, I think I would have liked to see you dancing. It's far more fun sipping wine and glaring at the ground."

Ilaria gaped and racked her brain for a witty response, but Robb left the table before she could do so. Instead, she turned her attention to her ladies, the two of whom were staring at Robb's retreating figure. Ilaria rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushing red at the knowledge that her ladies overheard her conversation. "Staring is rude."

"He's rather forward, isn't he?" Emilee muttered, taking a sip of her wine.

"He's the heir to the North," Ria reminded her. "He's allowed to be forward."

Ilaria sighed, massaging her forehead as she felt a headache forming. Typically she could handle these grand feasts, but after a day of long traveling in such a cold and icy place, she would rather be in bed than mingling with strangers and mincing her words. And besides, it was the royal family that these Northerners were interested in, not her. She could slip out unnoticed, damn whatever Cersei wanted.

Ilaria stood up and placed her wine cup down, her mind determined. "Excuse me, but I think I will be leaving now."

Emilee raised an eyebrow. "You've been here for about ten minutes."

"Ten minutes too long," Ilaria retorted. "Besides, I need sleep, not wine nor dancing nor rowdy men."

"What do you have against wine, dancing, and rowdy men?"

Ria smiled sweetly and elbowed Emilee, causing the other girl to wince. "Would you like one of us to come with you?"

"I think I can make it to my chambers without being attacked."

"You never know, these Northerners are rumored to be savages."

Ilaria rolled her eyes. "If I thought myself to be in danger behind these guarded castle walls, I would get an actual guard to escort me, not my two ladies who barely know how to lift a sword themselves."

"That's a fair point," Ria grinned. "Goodnight, Lady Ilaria."

"Goodnight, Ria," Ilaria smiled down at her. "Emilee, try not to find yourself in any compromising situations that would come back to me."

"Of course not, my lady," Emilee said innocently. "I will do any unseemly deeds with the utmost subtlety."

Ilaria rolled her eyes — for what felt like the hundredth time that day — before promptly turning around and walking towards the exit of the Great Hall. She stopped at the door before slipping out into the cold air, turning her head to catch one glimpse of the scene unfolding in the packed room.

Robert was laughing, grabbing some poor serving girl's arse and drinking an unseemly amount of wine, all while Lord Eddard sat next to him, looking very uncomfortable by his friend's crude antics. Ilaria scoffed at the king's display, disgusted by his mere presence and the pitiful way he held himself. She had never met a man more pathetic than Robert Baratheon; once a warrior in his prime, now a drunk and fat king who would fuck whichever poor girl he could get his grubby hands on. Seven Hells, he once groped Ilaria when he got drunk on stale and cheap wine while at a private dinner with her, Tyrion, and Cersei, before Cersei threw a plate at his face. He didn't even have the grace to keep his indiscretions private, blatantly showing it off and repeatedly dishonoring his wife. Cersei's marriage was the only reason Ilaria would ever pity her sister; sold off young to some drunk boar with an appetite for scantily-clad whores.

Cersei glared at her oblivious husband, taking long sips of her wine as Lady Catelyn tried to engage her in a meaningful conversation away from the king. It didn't work though, as Cersei continued to glower at Robert and the Lord and Lady Stark began to look more and more uncomfortable.

Ilaria tore her eyes away from that hideous scene, looking at the table below the platform where she had sat. Ria and Emilee were quietly talking amongst themselves until Emilee grabbed Ria's hand and dragged her to where the dancing was happening. Sansa was chatting to Myrcella, and young Arya watched the interaction with uninterested eyes, much more focused on her food. Damon was still sitting next to Tyrek, who was speaking loudly and causing the other boy to laugh into his food. Joffrey was loudest of them all, boasting about some fictionalized great deed to the Greyjoy hostage, who looked unimpressed for his part.

Tommen was still sitting with Bran and Rickon, with Robb keeping an eye over them. Ilaria's gaze lingered on Tommen, making sure the young boy seemed content before moving further out the door. But Robb caught her eye, forcing her to remain still, and he lifted his arm to wave to her.

Ilaria hesitated, but lifted her hand awkwardly to return his wave. When he grinned, she stumbled backwards and quickly left the hall. She walked through the courtyard — rather fast after that — not even stopping when she saw Tyrion speaking to a dark-haired boy, only focused on getting to her chambers so she could finally get some much-needed rest.

However, the more she walked, the more confused she seemed to get. Under the cloak of darkness, each corner and hall seemed the same, long and stretched out. Ilaria simply picked up her pace, hoping that she just might stumble into a familiar corner or staircase that might take her to her chambers. She came across a small wooden gate with a sleeping guard beside it, who must have had too much to drink. _Perhaps the Guest House is behind these gates,_ she wondered, her fingers grazing the open locks loosely hanging from the hinges of the door.

She opened the wooden gate, quiet enough as not to wake the sleeping guard. The night seemed to get darker and darker as she walked, and she was fast to realize that it was the wrong gate she had passed through. She noticed the darkness had come with the treetops above; she had wandered into the godswood! Ilaria groaned and cursed her tiredness for her mistake, then turned back towards the gate, but found it to be locked. "AYE!" she yelled, slamming her hand against the wooden door. How the gate locked itself, she didn't know. "Let me out!"

But all she heard was the guard snore, apparently too deep into his drunken slumber to hear her.

Ilaria silently swore — cursing herself once more for not taking Ria's offer for an escort or making one of her brothers accompany her to her chambers. Winterfell may not have been as grand as Casterly Rock, or even twice it's size, but was still large and far too easy to get lost in. And Ilaria was clearly that — lost in a strange place, surrounded by strange people.

A frightening thought came to her; how many stories has she heard of some foolish maiden that would walk through castle walls or quiet forests in the dead of night and be attacked by some savage. And here she was, walking through the empty woods of Winterfell…

She pushed the thought away as soon as it came to her. She was not some serving wench to be defiled and left for dead, nor was she an easily-frightened maiden; she was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and any man who would even have the thought of touching her would face judgement even worse than that of the Father's. Even these brutish Northerners would know that.

Ilaria straightened her back, walking deeper into the small forest. There were dozens of trees in the grove, soldier pines dressed in somber greens, and ironwood wearing a coat even blacker than the night sky, it's fading golden leaves standing out like yellow stars. The trees created a dense canopy over the old and tired earth, moss creeping along the grounds and trees. The deeper she went in, the more curious she became. Finally, she could see the weirwood tree in the center of the grove, standing tall over a pool of black water.

Ilaria hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to the strange tree where the Northerners prayed to their queer gods. The weirwood was large and twisted, with a mournful face etched into the bark, and she wondered what happened to make the Old Gods so sorrowful.

She walked past the pool of black water and sat down by the roots of the heart tree, her fingers reaching up to lightly graze the tears running down the weirwood's face, carved red as the leaves clung on to the branches. It was far different than the godswood of Casterly Rock or the Red Keep, where the godswood was treated more as a place of leisure than that of prayer, and the heart tree was only a stump, it's face gone.

She knew the First Men that conquered the North thousands of years ago feared that the Children's greenseers could look through the eyes carved into the trees, and continued to cut down many weirwood trees and groves with their bronze axes. They eventually made peace, and the First Men began to worship the Old Gods too, allowing for weirwoods to grow again. The Andals were different, never taking up the Old Gods but keeping to the Seven, and they too cut down heart trees and hacked their mournful faces in fear that the Old Gods and mythical greenseers could watch them.

Ilaria had always thought that the fears of the First Men and the Andals were nonsense. Trees were trees, even those with faces, and they could not possibly watch you or your sins. But now that she was in a proper godswood, she could understand their fears. She felt like an intruder under the tree's stare, an unwanted foreigner loitering in a place where she certainly did not belong. She felt if she was awaiting judgment from the weirwood standing in front of her, frozen like a giant for a millennia.

Still, she did not leave — perhaps because of the exhaustion that weighed down on her or the weariness of her bones from a long day, or perhaps because it was simply deep into the night. She leaned against the tree instead, her eyes fluttering open and closed as she tried to stay awake. But her exhaustion won, and it was not long before she drifted off into a deep sleep in that strange place.

She dreamt of the godswood, of snow falling from the sky and the weirwood openly weeping, red tears streaking the ashy white bark. A pack of wolves began to devour her, tearing her bronze skin with their sharp teeth, her blood staining their wild fur and dripping from their claws. Ilaria screamed, but the wolves did not heed her cries, only continuing to scar her skin even further. One wolf, fur dark as night, cackled at the sight of her blood. _The lion doesn't bleed gold after all!_

"Beasts!" she cried out, red staining her gown, changing her dress from the grey of House Stark to the crimson red of House Lannister. The creatures tearing into her skin seemed to be more beasts than wolves, bigger than any wolf had the right to be, and the way their eyes glowed and followed her seemed almost human. "Get away from me!"

The wolf looked at her, his eyes glowing and deep growls rumbling from his throat, his snarl forming words. _Little lionheart, little liar._

 _Little lionheart,_ that's what her mother called her when she was but a child, and so would her Uncle Gerion and her favorite septa, and a dozen other men and women who would work the halls of Casterly Rock, but it was mainly her mother's name for her. A silly nickname she hadn't heard since she was young child.

"I'm not a liar," Ilaria objected, her voice rasped and weak. "I have not lied to you."

 _But you will, winter child,_ the wolf with said blue eyes the color of the sea said. _You will deceive and betray and the shard in your mouth will turn your silver tongue into rivers of corpses and stories of blood._

 _Leave,_ another wolf hissed, this one smaller than the rest but no less angry. _Leave before the crows feast upon your flesh and the cold freezes your bones._

"I don't bear any of you ill will," Ilaria gasped as another wolf sank their teeth into her thigh. "I don't understand!"

 _Because you cannot see,_ the wolf with red eyes snarled, reaching up and scratching her eyes with his bloodied claws, blinding her. _Now, you will._

She woke up with a sudden start, gasping and touching her eyes. There was no blood and her sight was fine as ever. Ilaria glanced at the weirwood, still so mournful and weary, it's weeping face frozen in time. Blood wasn't running down from it's eyes and there were no wolves with sharp teeth hidden behind the bark. Only snow was there, drifting from the sky like ashes from a fire.

 _It was just an odd dream,_ she told herself, _a nightmare._ But the longer she stood in the godswood, the more unnerved she became. She didn't belong in such a strange place, surrounded by strange gods. _I need to leave._


	2. DAMON LANNISTER I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shamed Damon to admit but he never cared much for the sport of the hunt.
> 
> For all his practice, he could never grasp the skill of archery, or the crossbow. He would spend days in the courtyard of the Red Keep practicing the bow, until his fingers became stiff and his muscles ache. But he still struggled pulling back the bow and he struggled even more with his aim that always seemed to allow his arrow to land the furthest away it could from his target. Unlike Joffrey, who excelled at wielding the crossbow, perhaps one of the few things he surpassed Damon in. It frustrated him to no end, more so with how hunting seemed to only use bow or spears, another weapon he has no skill in, unlike the sword. But it's not as if he could challenge a boar to a spar.

**THE WOODEN SWORD HIT HIS SHOULDER, HARD ENOUGH TO BRUSIE AND STRONG ENOUGH TO KNOCK HIM TO HIS KNEES BUT DAMON GRITTED HIS TEETH AND SCRAMBLED BACK ONTO HIS FEET.** He wasted no time picking up his practice sword and aiming to hit Robb Stark between his ribs, a shot that his opponent deflected before raising his own sword. This time Damon was fast enough to dodge the attack but he had little time to celebrate his victory, as the spar continued without pause. He gripped the handle of the practice sword, determined to win the spar.

It was proving to be a difficult feat; Robb Stark is two years his elder and therefore had two more years of experience. And the northerners fight so differently than that of the South, much more bold and brutish and not so cunning or sly. He should have paid more attention to the other fights, he should have been more observant of their techniques but he was distracted by Joffrey and his burning remarks.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see everyone. Joffrey watches with half interest, seeming more interested in the wrinkles on his tunic than the spar. He could see Sandor and Ilaria — who he hadn't even realized was in the courtyard — as well. Sandor stares at him with a bored expression but looks nonetheless and Ilaria stares at with a frown and something akin to annoyance in her eyes.

He was only glad that Jaime isn't here to see him still sparring with Robb without any victory. Damon could only imagine the disappointment on Jaime's face to see him losing to one of the northerners. He could almost hear the words that Jaime would utter, his eyebrows arched and disgruntlement dripping from his voice. _Didn't I teach you better than that?_

Damon swung his sword even harder, hitting Robb's forearm. It was only practice but he refused to lose; not with so many people watching and not with his own pride on the line. Robb lifted his sword, clashing it against Damon's, the familiar sound of wood hitting wood ringing in his ears. Robb didn't stop his attack, repeatedly hitting his sword against his, until Damon felt his arms getting weary and the ground becoming unsteady beneath his feet. But he did not falter.

" _Damon!_ " a voice called out and he instinctively turned his head.

A moment of distraction is all that Robb needed to disarm him, knocking the sword out of his hand. Damon's sword clattered to the ground as Robb lifted the end of his sword under Damon's chin. "Yield," he said, the pride evident in his voice.

Damon glanced at the fallen wooden sword, wondering if he could pick it up fast enough to continue the spar. But it was too far and the fight was well over. "I yield." he grudgingly surrendered.

Robb dropped his sword, lifting his hand out instead. "Good fight."

 _It would have been better if I had won,_ Damon glumly thought. He forced himself to forget his wounded pride and quickly shook Robb's extended hand before letting his hand drop to his side. "Good fight." he numbly repeated before walking to the corner of the courtyard where his sister was as Ser Rodrik pushed Tommen and Bran to the center to practice drills, both heavely padded.

"You did that on purpose." Damon accused once he was by his sister's side, his voice low. "Why?"

Ilaria tilted her head. "Did what?" she asked, her eyes darting to the center of the courtyard where Tommen and Bran are mock battling.

Damon scowled. He knew his sister well enough to know when she's lying or playing the part of the fool. "Call out my name," he grumbled. "You distracted me and I lost."

"You were already losing."

"I could have won," Damon objected. "I lost because of the distraction you caused."

"You were losing." Ilaria said more stubbornly and Damon wondered if her distraction had more of a purpose than he thought, there is nothing his sister hates more than losing. She rolled her eyes. "You _boys_ take sparring far too seriously, even when you hold wooden sticks in your hands and not true steel."

 _Is it only us who take it seriously?_ Damon wondered. _Is that why you called out my name, so you can take blame for my loss?_ "Perhaps, but I still hoped to have won."

"As did I." Ilaria said, rubbing her eyes. Damon frowned, taking a closer look at his sister, who looked slightly disheveled — an uncommon occurrence for her. But all of his sympathy slipped away as she continued talking. "The Stark boy beating you was rather humiliating for our family, but I suppose that is on me for distracting you. Apologizes Damon, I will never dare to do any such thing again so you may claim victory in the future."

Damon reddened. "It's only practice, Ilaria." he muttered, glancing at his feet, but he didn't argue any further. There was no point in needling his sister until she speaks true but has ill will against him. It's impossible to win a fight against Ilaria. Not with how his sister nurses each grudge close to her heart.

Besides, what Ilaria has done doesn't matter; he needs to train more. This won't be the last time he spars against a Northerner while in Winterfell and he refuses to lose again. He'll ask Jaime to train with him later, when the courtyard is less crowded and all the lurkers have left. If Jaime refuses or stalls as he tends to, Damon will drag his brother to the courtyard if he has too.

Despite him being Jaime's squire, the older man is all too reluctant to train Damon as a knight is supposed to with his squire. He more often sends Damon running around, polishing steel and armor or doing tasks for him, which is typical for a squire but Damon had always hoped for more. It was better than being Lancel or Tyrek, who were the King's squires and only received yells and insults. Jaime, for his many faults, never yells at him. And if Damon is patient and dutiful enough, his brother will pick up a wooden sword and spar with him. Jaime would not break a single sweat while Damon would become bruised and aching, but elated nonetheless.

"I thought you were in the embroidery circle, watching over Myrcella?" Damon asked, lifting his head.

"I was," Ilaria answered, lifting her hands so he could see her blemished and red fingers. "I poked myself with a needle over a dozen times and still my stitching was the worst in the entire room, even more terrible than the youngest Stark girl's embroidery and her's was _terrible._ " she let her hands fall down to her side. "The septa and my ladies, or one of Cersei's _countless_ ladies, can watch over Myrcella. I refuses to stay in that room any longer so everyone can see how awful I am at doing even the most basic of embroidery nor do I wish to torture my fingers any longer."

Damon felt a stab of sympathy for his sister, even if she should not have left Myrcella. Though, he supposes Myrcella is capable of taking care of herself, despite her young age, and she must be enjoying herself, unlike Ilaria. He knew how Ilaria struggled with embroidery. "I'm sure it wasn't so terrible…" his voice trailed off as Ilaria took a handkerchief out of the pocket of her skirt, showing the embroidery to him. He raised his eyebrows at the crooked and misplaced stitches of what he assumes is a lion. "You are right, that is awful."

Ilaria sighed, placing the handkerchief back in her pocket. "I'm burning it as soon as I can."

Damon ducked his head, trying to hide the smile that was fighting onto his lips. Ilaria would certainly _not_ appreciate the humor of the situation.

"Damon?" a new voice said, causing Damon to turn his head. Robb Stark stood in front of him, a smile on his face and still basking in his victory. "I wanted to come say that you fought well."

 _I lost,_ Damon wanted to say, _there is no need to celebrate a defeat._ He doesn't even wish to acknowledge his defeat. But Damon is not a child nor more, he is of three-and-ten years, nearly a _man_. And mendo not pout or scowl when they face defeat. Throwing tantrums and bitter words were beneath him. He forced a smile on his face. "As did you."

Robb grinned. "You nearly bested me, I don't think I ever sparred with someone so stubborn."

Ilaria scoffed. "A victory for you, I'm sure." she said and Damon glanced at his sister with wide eyes. His sister, who always cautioned politeness and diplomacy, now refused to hold her tongue. "Besting a boy two years your younger and not even with steel."

Robb looked taken aback, seeming unsure of what to say. Ilaria tends to have that impression on people, especially when in an ill mood. Damon stifled a groan, placing a hand on his sister's shoulder. "We should—"

"It was a fair fight, evenly tested," Robb said, interrupting Damon. "And there was no steel so no undue blood could be spilt."

Ilaria's lips twisted into a sardonic smile, mocking and mean. "All I see is a game for boys. But perhaps that is all you Northerners are capable of."

Damon gave an exasperated sigh, wondering what is wrong with Ilaria to make her misbehave so. _Seven Above, if you can hear me, make my sister lose her voice._ "Ilaria," he hissed through gritted teeth, nudging elbowing Ilaria's stomach. "What are you doing?"

Ilaria didn't answer him, she didn't even spare him a glance, her glare focused on Robb Stark before stomping away as Theon Greyjoy passed by her, giving her a strange look. Damon wanted to scoff; so much for the diplomacy and the importance of appearances his sister always preached. Something must be troubling her, for her to snap at Robb Stark so cruelly or to abandon Myrcella with the Northerners. He turned his head to the dumbfounded Stark boy, and the Greyjoy that was now standing next to him.

"My apologies," Damon said, awkwardly shifting on his feet. He tried to think of a good excuse. "Our travels still alis her."

"You arrived over a week ago." Theon Greyjoy pointed out, a smirk worming on his lips. Damon decided he didn't like the Ironborn man; he was far too smug than anyone had the right to be, especially for one who has been a hostage since he was a boy. That, and he was _Ironborn_ , men who were notoriously known to be savages who pray to fish and seaweed, which was even worse than praying to trees like the Northerners do.

"If you have traveled the distance we have with over hundreds of men, you too would be ill-tempered for weeks to come." Damon snapped before cringing at the abruptness of his words. "It was a very difficult travels."

There was a shout from the corner of the courtyard, forcing Damon's attention there. Tommen was rolling on the ground, repeatedly trying to stand on his own feet and failing before giving up and collapsing on the ground. Bran stood over him, his wooden sword raised high, in ready position and a serious look on his face. But he looked equally as silly as Tommen, padded so heavily that he was waddling too. All the men began laughing, Joffrey's shrieks of laughter the loudest. Even Damon could not hide the snicker escaping his lips.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out, silencing the courtyard with a single look. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet, Tommen waddling to Damon. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor."

A tall and scrawny man with ash brown hair scurried over to loosen the padding around Tommen's abdomen. Damon gave his nephew a smile. "You did well."

Tommen beamed, lifting his arms so Donnis could slip the padding over his head. "I had fun! But I lost,"

"It's just practice, you are allowed to lose in practice." Damon reassured him. "I've fallen many times in training." he glanced at Joffrey, who was standing on the other side of the courtyard, looking bored and uninterested as ever. "Let's go to your brother."

Joffrey gave them a vicious grin when he saw them coming. "Licking your wounds?"

Damon gave him a mocking glare. "I would have won," he grumbled. "If Ilaria hadn't distracted me."

"Why was she here?"

Damon shrugged. "She didn't want to stay in the embroidery circle so she came here."

Joffrey puffed out his chest. "Women should not force themselves onto men's business if they do not hold their tongue," he said before giving Tommen a look of disdain. "And princes shouldn't allow themselves to be beaten by some northern brute."

Tommen shrunk back, darting back until his back touched the wall. Damon gave him a look of sympathy before turning his head to Joffrey. "Be gentle with him, he is only of six years while Bran is of nine. And it is not as if your mother allowed him to practice with wooden swords before, he was doomed to lose before even stepped on the mat." he said, glancing at the center of the courtyard, where Ser Rodrik is speaking in low voices to two other men. "You shouldn't call the northerners brutes anyone, your future bride is of the North."

"Sansa?" Joffrey shrugged. "She's hardly one."

"Her name is Stark," Damon pointed out, though he knows what Joffrey means. Sansa looked more like her southern mother and followed the new gods as well as the old ones from what he had heard. "Red hair and blue eyes or not, she is still a Stark."

"Prince Joffrey," Ser Rodrik called out, catching the two boy's attention. Ser Rodrik glanced at Robb Stark. "Robb, will you go another round?"

Robb moved forward, eagerly nodding. "Gladly."

Robb will surely beat Joffrey if he had bested Damon; one thing that Damon was certain of is that he was the far superior swordsman between him and Joffrey. Which only made sense, he practiced everyday with Ser Aron or Jaime, while Joffrey seemed to take very little interest. But when Robb beats Joffrey, his ego will be wounded and an ill tempered Joffrey was worse than an ill tempered Ilaria, or Robert when he begins to heavily drink.

Joffrey rolled his eyes before stepping forward. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik." he declared. Damon's eyes widened at his friends' words and he wondered what it was that made all of his kin wake this day intent on causing trouble.

Theon Greyjoy scoffed. "You are children," he said, causing Damon to scowl. _Brute_ , he thought, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Robb may be a child," Joffrey said. Damon could see the anger growing on Robb's face, his pride must be already wounded by Ilaria regarding him as a boy playing silly games, Joff's insult will only provoke him further. "But I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."

"You got more swats than you gave, Joffrey," Robb said, scowling. "Are you afraid?"

Joffery scoffed, glaring at Robb. "Oh, terrified," He said sarcastically. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed at the insult. Damon just sighed.

Ser Rodrik glanced curiously at the prince "What are you suggesting?"

"Live steel." Joffrey said, causing Damon's eyes to widen at the suggestion. He wasn't even allowed to fight with steel and he is a full year older than Joffrey and trains thrice as much. A stab of envy twisted in his stomach at the thought of Joffrey fighting with steel before him.

Tommen tugged on Damon's tunic. "They're going to use real swords?" he asked. Damon didn't answer, his eyes trained on the scene unfolding before him.

"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"

"Live steel is too dangerous," Ser Rodrik said, giving Robb a sharp look. "I will permit you tourney blades with blunted edges."

Sandor stepped forward. "This is your prince, who are you to tell him he may not have edges on his sword?" he said, the scowl twisted on his lips and the burned half of his face making him seem more intimidating than usual.

Sandor Clegane was a beast of a man, taller and more muscled than any man Damon has ever seen — besides the Mountain, Sandor's elder brother. He was a scowling man, with half of his face burnt, the burned skin red and raw with black scars. Truthfully, the burned man frightened Damon, though he would never admit it. Sandor was gruff and always angry, but Joffrey liked him and Sandor was surprisingly gentle with Tommen so Damon tried to look past his own fear of the man. It felt wrong to dislike Sandor for no reason besides his alarming appearance, especially since he has never done any ill towards him.

Ser Rodrik glared at the burnt man. "I am master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and it will do you best not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" Sandor asked, earning a round of laughter from the courtyard.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said evenly. "They will have steel when they are ready. _When_ they are of an age."

Sandor looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fifteen," Robb answered.

"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."

"Twelve?" Damon repeated in disbelief. Joffrey was twelve and he could not imagine him killing anyone. Damon is thirteen, a year ahead of twelve, and he can't imagine killing anyone. He glanced down at Tommen. "Who kills a man at _twelve_?"

Tommen only shrugged.

Robb bristled, turning his head towards Ser Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey smirked. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not _too_ old."

There was a loud bout of laughter from all of the Lannister and Baratheon men in the courtyard. Damon pulled Joffrey back. "Not very nice," he tried to scold but his own laughter undercut it. Joffrey grinned.

Robb turned a bright shade of red and let out a loud string of curses that shocked Damon into silence as he covered Tommen's ears. Theon Greyjoy had to seize Robb's arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik only looked on with disappointment.

Joffrey feigned a yawn. "Come, Tommen, Damon," he said. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics."

"That was hardly well spoken of you," Damon snickered as they left the courtyard, Tommen humming as he walked in front of them. He placed a hand on the younger boy's shoulder, so Tommen won't run off. "You didn't have to humiliate the Stark boy."

Joffrey scoffed. "I saw you laughing, do not act superior. You enjoyed it."

"Stark bested me in our spar, of course I enjoyed it." Damon defensively said. It wasn't very chivalrous of him to be amused by Joffrey's display but there was a deep satisfaction in seeing Robb be humiliated the same way he was. "Doesn't mean you should do it. Your mother will give you an earful."

Joffrey bristled. "My mother cares little for the Starks or their pride." he groaned. "If anything, Ilaria will be shrieking at me with her shrill voice."

"Considering how she berated Stark beforehand, it would be considerably hypocritical of her."

Joffrey stopped. "Speaking of…" his voice trailed off as Ilaria came into his view.

"Ilaria!" Tommen yelled, darting forward and away from Damon's grasp. Ilaria greeted him with a wide smile, so different from the scowl that refused to leave her lips earlier. Tommen started chattering and whatever he said caused Ilaria's smile to fade away and to turn her gaze towards them, glaring.

Damon nudged Joffrey. "Go ahead, receive your scolding and be done with it." he whispered.

Joffrey groaned. "When I am king, I won't deal with _her_ anyone." he spat out, disdain dripping from each word. "I'll send her off to some crumbling castle to marry some drunk."

"She'll be married and gone long before you become king," Damon pointed out, chewing the inside of his cheek. The tension between Joffrey and Ilaria had always made him uneasy. He had cautioned Ilaria to be more careful with her tongue around Joffrey and he had begged Joffrey not to take Ilaria's words so seriously. But Joffrey never forgets a slight and Ilaria is far too pigheaded to head any of his warnings. "I doubt it would be to a drunk with a crumbling castle."

Joffrey rolled his eyes, walking towards where Tommen and Ilaria are, Sandor and his guards trailing behind him, leaving Damon to stand by himself. He could see the identical scowls on Ilaria and Joffrey's faces as they began to quietly argue, too quiet for him to hear. Tommen was staring at both of them with wide eyes, no doubt dumbfounded by the venomous language the two must be exchanging. _Poor boy,_ he thought, shaking his head. _Hasn't he suffered enough by being forced to listen to Cersei and Robert's squabbling?_ Damon sighed and turned around to make his exit, only to be stopped by the presence of the two girls who he nearly collided into.

Sansa Stark beamed at him. "Hello, Master Damon." she said, a small smile gracing her lips and her Tully blue eyes lighting up at the sight of Joffrey behind him.

Damon had spoken very little to Joffrey's betrothed, but she seemed kindly and well-spoken enough. Myrcella and Tommen liked her and Ilaria wasn't openly bad-mouthing her, so she had his sister's flimsy approval. Cersei cared little for her and Jaime had mentioned how she disliked the thought of Joffrey and Sansa wedding each other once they were old enough. Damon didn't understand why; Sansa was a beautiful girl who came from two noble families and seemed more than fit for the Crown Prince. He supposes that has to do with her dislike for House Stark, a dislike that Jaime and apparently Ilaria shared. _Another_ thing he doesn't understand, the Starks were strange with their tree gods and pet wolves but hardly worthy of any criticism.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted, his eyes darting to her dark-haired companion. "Erm.."

"Jeyne," the girl provided. "My name is Jeyne Poole."

Damon awkwardly nodded his head, the name holding no recognition for him. "My lady," he said, his eyes darting to the cloth crumbled in Sansa's head. "What is that?"

Sansa blushed. "It's..." her voice trailed off, suddenly shy. Her hands fumbled with the cloth until she managed to smooth it against her palm, showing off the embroidery of a black stag against the yellow cloth. "I made it for the prince."

"It's beautiful," Damon marveled, staring at the cloth. It was beautiful, almost rivaling anything his sister, Valora, had made and Valora's tapestries were _incredible_. "You are very skilled."

Sansa beamed at the compliment. "Thank you,"

"I would only suggest making it a lion next time," Damon suggested. "Joff prefers lions. They are all animals to me but I suppose lions are more ferocious than stags."

Sansa's eyes widened. "He does?"

Damon froze at the worry in Sansa's voice. He hadn't meant to offend her. "I'm sure he will like this." he tried to say but Sansa was focused on the cloth in her hands.

"Come on, Sansa," Jeyne tugged her arm. "You can make a new one."

The two girls rushed away, whispering in each other's ears as they walked. Damon resisted the urge to groan at his own misstep, focusing on the holes that were forming at the edge of his tunic instead. His tunic was ripped, but that was a common occurrence and he could mend it himself. He learned to mend his own clothes when he was still half a boy, after receiving numerous dirty looks from Septa Eglantine when he gave her his torn clothes time after time. He wasn't capable of the delicate embroidery that Valora did for her tapestry and gowns, but he can mend the tears on his own clothes. He furrowed his eyebrows before turning around to look for Joffrey and Ilaria. But Joffrey and Tommen were gone and only Ilaria remained, giving him a curious look and slowly walking out of the yard.

Damon made his way to her. "Where's Joff?"

"What did you say to her?" Ilaria asked, watching Sansa and Jeyne's retreating figures. "She looked upset. I pray you did not do not anything foolish."

"I should say the same of you," he shot back. He straightened his back and raised his voice. "Damon, remember to mind your words and not to cause trouble! Seven only knows how these brutes react when they are slighted."

Ilaria scoffed. "I do not sound like that!" she objected, turning around and continuing her walking, Damon trailing behind her. "And I did not call them brutes."

"What is wrong with you?" Damon asked, walking faster to keep up with his sister's fast pace. _Where is she going?_ He wondered as they sped past the Armory and Guards Hall, and fewer and fewer people haunted the grounds. "You have been acting so terribly since we arrived and you berated Robb Stark for no reason. Considerably hypocritical of you."

"I'm sorry," Ilaria said, surprising Damon so much that he nearly tripped over a rock. "I haven't been sleeping."

That explains a lot; nothing makes his sister more agitated than lack of sleep. Damon grimaced, knowing how cruel Ilaria can be when deprived of sleep. She was nearly as bad as Robert when he's too deep in his cups, or Cersei the day after an argument with Robert that leaves her stiff and shaking with rage. "Why?"

Ilaria stopped, right in front of an open gate that led to the woods inside of Winterfell. "Because of this!"

Damon gave Ilaria a weary look, wondering how little sleep his sister must have gotten to be offended by a wooden _gate_. "The gate?"

"No," she sighed, walking through the gate and pulling Damon through. "Because of the godswood."

"You need to sleep," Damon grumbled, winching at the tight grip Ilaria had around his bicep as she dragged them through the woods. "Dear Mother Above, take a _nap_ , I beg of you."

The godswood of Winterfell was different from that of the Red Keep _or_ Casterly Rock. In the Rock, the godswood was named the Stone Garden, for the stone paths adorning the ground, weeds and stray flowers growing in between the cracks. Sunlight would stream through the cracks of the walls and ceiling, lighting up the usually silent garden as green vines crept up on the stone benches, little flowers the color of sunshine growing on it's veins. The weirwood was only a stump, it's head cut off long ago. The godswood in the Red Keep was similar to that of the Rock, a stumped tree in the center of what was more akin to a garden than a forest. Both so different from that of Winterfell's.

The godswood of Winterfell was hidden inside the tall trees of the woods that lurked inside of Winterfell's stone walls. A blanket of light snow covered the ground, the green grass hiding under the icy mush and snow. The heart tree stood in the center of the grove, standing tall with a weeping face carved into the bark, the hot springs across the weirwood tree.

Damon tilted his head at the heart tree; the mournful face and red leaves were strange yes, but no reason to have sleepless nights. "I don't understand."

Ilaria grimaced, looking around with unease. "I was here the night of feast and my exhaustion brought me to slumber upon the roots of the heart tree."

Damon frowned. "You fell asleep here?" he exclaimed, looking around. Under the light of day, the godswood did not seem so daunting but he can only imagine how uneasy it must feel under the cloak of night. "No soothing dreams?"

"No sweet dreams, only visions of ferocious wolves and blood on my skin haunted me that night. The wolves spoke too, of strange things and it made me wonder…" Ilaria trailed off.

"Wonder of what?"

"The old gods do not like us." his sister murmured, her eyes trained on the weirwood. "They do not wish us to be here."

Damon stared at her, dumbfounded. "They are trees," he scoffed. There was no such thing as the old gods, only the Seven. These were simply carved trees, made to frighten men. "You are becoming mad."

Ilaria reddened. "Watch your words!"

"Mad," Damon muttered, turning his head and walking away. "My sister is becoming a mad woman! Trees talk to—"

His words were abruptly cut off, something cold and wet hitting the back of his head. He stopped in his steps, touching the back of neck before turning around. "Did you throw snow at me?" Damon exclaimed, looking at the white flakes covering the tips of his fingers.

"No," Ilaria said. "I made a ball of snow _then_ I threw it at you. Which was well deserved for calling me a mad woman."

"A ball of snow?" Damon repeated, bending down and picking up a pile of snow in his hands, the soft mush slipping through his bare fingers. The snow was cold and made his hands ache but he mushed into something resembling a ball anyways. "Perhaps we should test my aim."

"Damon," Ilaria warned, looking warily at the snow in his hands as she slowly backed away. "Don't you dare. These silks will be damaged and you are already dirty—"

Damon threw the snowball, hitting Ilaria in the face.

The snow dripped off of Ilaria's shocked face and she stood still as a statue. For a moment, Damon wondered if she would storm off. _Good riddance,_ Damon glumly thought, wiping the snow off of his shoulder. _She threw snow at me!_

Ilaria lunged forward instead, flinging snow in his face. "Take that!" she triumphantly yelled as the snow hit his chest. She grinned, scoping up a handful of snow and throwing it again.

Damon narrowly dodged the snow. "You missed me!" he shouted as another ball of snow hit his face. He picked up another clump of snow and chased his sister around the godswood, throwing lumpy balls of snow at each other until their shouts turned into shrieks of laughter.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

It shamed Damon to admit but he never cared much for the sport of the hunt.

For all his practice, he could never grasp the skill of archery, or the crossbow. He would spend days in the courtyard of the Red Keep practicing the bow, until his fingers became stiff and his muscles ache. But he still struggled pulling back the bow and he struggled even more with his aim that always seemed to allow his arrow to land the furthest away it could from his target. Unlike Joffrey, who excelled at wielding the crossbow, perhaps one of the few things he surpassed Damon in. It frustrated him to no end, more so with how hunting seemed to only use bow or spears, another weapon he has no skill in, unlike the sword. But it's not as if he could challenge a boar to a spar.

Not that he needed such skills so urgently, the hunt Robert called for hardly seemed to produce any results. There were over two dozen people in the hunting party, all traipsing through the woods and scaring any prey hidden behind the trees. The deers and boars must be able to hear them and run, and that is why not a single prey has been captured.

"I haven't seen a single hare, much less a deer." Damon grumbled, stepping over a log, lightly covered in snow. He was marching besides Joffrey and Tyrek, Sandor and numerous guards trailing not too far behind them. "How much longer do you think we are forced to stay here?"

Joffrey smirked. "Tired so early?"

"No animal is going to come, they are all scared off by the noise."

Tyrek grinned, running a hand through his reddish-yellow curls. "Not with your loud feet," he began stomping loudly, nearly jumping on the ground. Tyrek was eleven, younger than both Joffrey and Damon, and by far the most childish. "This is how you sound!"

"And somehow, not as nearly as loud as you." Damon shot back, stomping his feet though the ground. "I can't even hear myself think!"

"Both of you, shut up!" Joffrey hissed, ceasing the stomping and snickering between the two boys. He straightened his back and lifted his crossbow. "I plan to capture our dinner."

"The only thing I see is leaves." Tyrek grumbled. "You can't feast on leaves."

Joffrey lowered his crossbow, glaring at Tyrek. "Aren't you my father's squire? Shouldn't you be assisting him?"

Tyrek shuffled on his feet, his moss green eyes nervously darting to the King. Damon knew that Tyrek was terrified of Robert, not that he blamed him. Robert was _terrifying_ ; with his drinking, his yelling, most of which is directed to his unfortunate squires. "Lancel is helping him."

"Poor Lancel." Damon muttered, pitying his usually obnoxious cousin. Lancel was of five-and-ten years and thought of himself to be better than the lot of them; barring Joffrey. "You should help him."

"Lancel can handle the king himself."

Joffrey scoffed. "You're his squire too. Stop being so craven and _go_."

"Damon is Ser Jaime's squire and he's with you, not him."

"Jaime isn't here," Damon answered. He had tried to convince Jaime to come along on the hunt but his brother refused, saying how there would be many more for him to come along on, in places with better prey. "He decided to stay in the castle."

"Mother had a headache," Joffrey said. "He's probably tending to her."

Damon frowned at that; Jaime and Cersei were too close. When Damon had first arrived at the Red Keep all those years ago, he had thought their unnatural closeness was due to them being twins. But Loren and Ilaria were twins too, and they hardly spoke to each other. And when they do, it is full of bickering and vicious insults. Never any quiet whispering and lingering touches. Bile rose up his throat as he thought of what Jaime and Cersei may be up too in their lonesome.

He should have stayed back at the castle. He could have kept an eye on Jaime then.

" _BOY!_ " Robert roared at Lancel, who shrank back. Damon winched the yelling. _If there wasn't any creature who didn't know we were here before, they certainly must now._

Tyrek's shoulders slumped. "Wish me luck." he grumbled before dragging his feet to where the King and Lord Eddard were.

Damon laughed as Tyrek made his way to Robert, only to be yelled at as soon as he arrived. _Poor Tyrek,_ he thought as he looked around at his surroundings. All he could see were tall trees and gossiping men. _Poor me._ "I pray that your lord father spots a deer or boar soon, so we can leave this hunt."

"Why?" Joffrey asked, his lips snaking into a smirk. "Are you frightened that I will catch more prey than you?"

"If you catch any at all."

"I will, much more than you."

"It's not a competition, Joff." Damon said, biting the inside of his cheek.

"It would be unfair to you if it was."

Damon bristled; if this were swordplay, he would be able to knock Joffrey down in no time. He almost considered telling Joffrey exactly that, before deciding against it. Joffrey is easily offended and nurses any grudge close to his heart and Damon had no intention of starting what would be a long and exhausting fight. "It would." he agreed, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Joffrey triumphantly grinned, a laugh escaping his lips. "I know."

Damon bit the inside of his cheek again, turning his head to where Robert and Lord Eddard stood. They seemed to be in deep conversation with one of Stark's guards, Robert's eyes widening and the usually stoic Lord Eddard's face falling before he nearly sprinted back to the castle, many of his own men following him. Robert lifted his hand, following his friend at a much slower pace and the rest of the hunt of following him.

Joffrey and Damon exchanged a look of confusion. "What is that about?" Joffrey wondered.

"I'm not sure," Damon shrugged, his eyes wandering to the messenger who was leaning against an oak tree, trying to catch his own breath. "But I will find out."

The messenger was still panting heavily when Damon reached him, sliding down the tree until he was sitting on the rough ground. "I don't suppose you have water, milord?" the messenger asked, wiping a bead of sweat forming on his forehead."

Damon shook his head. "No, but I will get you some." he glanced at the hunting party, all involved slowly leaving the woods. "What did you tell Lord Eddard and the King?"

"Ill news, I'm afraid." the messenger said. "Brandon Stark has fallen from the Broken Tower. A dangerous fall, I shouldn't have to tell you."

"He fell?" Damon exclaimed, gaping at the news. _How could he have fallen?_ He wondered. The poor boy; Damon had only gotten a glimpse of the Broken Tower but he could recall how towering and stable it looked. A fall from such heights can kill a young boy. "Will he survive?"

"Only the gods know." the messenger solemnly said, pulling himself back on his feet with Damon's help. "The maester says he is unconscious but there could be a chance he will find the strength to wake."

"I pray that he does." Damon murmured. Brandon Stark is young and so full of life. It would be cruel of the gods to rob him of that. "Come on, I will help you make your way back to the castle."

Three days soon passed and Bran still remained in a coma, not a single sign that he would awaken too. The atmosphere after young Bran's fall had quickly turned sour, it seemed that the castle itself was grieving for a boy that was not quite dead yet, but so very close. Damon visited the Sept each day, praying for Bran's recovery but it seemed unlikely that such wishes would come true. As more days passed by, the more it seemed to her that Bran Stark would not wake up and recover from his horrible fall. Lady Catelyn has locked herself in her son's chambers, Lord Eddard has become even more stoic, and the rest of the Stark children have become withdrawn.

Even Jaime, who is always full of smirks and japes, has become more somber. Ilaria has more and more sleepless nights, as she complained to him multiple times and demonstrated, by how late she arrived at their family's breakfast, red eyed and disheveled.

Tyrion, who had only arrived moments earlier and was standing by the edge of the table, raised an eyebrow to Ilaria's bleary state and wrinkled dress. "Difficult time sleeping, I assume?"

"Quiet." she muttered as she took a seat at the table, besides Damon. "I miss my own bed and my own chambers." she loudly complained.

Damon snorted, scarfing down his porridge as Tyrion took the seat besides Ilaria. Seven of them were present at the table, including Jaime and Cersei and her two youngest children. Only Joffrey was not there, choosing to skip the morning meal earlier.

"So I assume correctly." Tyrion muttered, grinning at Ilaria's misfortune before glancing at Cersei. "Is Robert still abed?"

Cersei scowled, whether at the sound of Tyrion's voice or the mention of her husband, Damon would not be able to tell. He knows how little she cares for either. "The King has not slept at all—"

"Neither have I," Ilaria grumbled, keeping her voice low enough for only Damon to hear. "But at least Robert has his whores and wine to keep him company."

"—He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow to heart."

"He has a large heart, our Robert." Jaime japed, making Damon snicker at the comment.

A servant approached the table, holding a tray with an assortment of cuisine to eat. "Bread," Tyrion told the servant. "And two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark beer to wash them down. And some bacon, burn it until it turns black. Oh, and give some of that bread and butter to my sister."

"Get me some more bread too," Damon called out, dropping his spoon in his now empty bowl. "And bacon too, but don't burn it until it turns black. I want more porridge too, and put those gooseberries on top. A lot of them."

The servant bowed, taking a loaf of hot bread and a bowl of butter off his tray and on to the plate in front of Ilaria and then another loaf of bread on Damon's bowl, before scurrying off to get Damon and Tyrion's breakfast.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow as Damon ripped a chunk of the bread off, taking large bites. "Did you starve yourself to be so hungry?"

Damon shrugged, taking another bite of his bread. He never knew what to make of Tyrion or his words. He was a strange looking man, with his stunted legs and mismatched eyes of green and black that made an even stranger stare. Tyrion was of sharp wit and even sharper tongue, which makes Damon almost as uncomfortable as he is with Tyrion's appearance. All of his words seemed to have a double meaning and Damon didn't care to find the hidden message in his words. It didn't help that Joffrey disliked Tyrion greatly. He could never have a conversation with Tyrion that lasts longer than a few minutes. He could never become close to Tyrion as Ilaria and Jaime were or become as fond of him as Tommen and Myrcella were. Especially with the knowledge of how Tyrion will be passed over for the Rock when their father dies in favor of Loren and the shame that comes along with that knowledge.

"Do you have news of Bran?" Tommen asked Ilaria, turning Damon's attention to them.

Ilaria shook her head. "No, I do not. Tyrion, perhaps you have some news?"

"I stopped by the sickroom last night." Tyrion announced, catching the attention of the three other occupants sitting at the table. "There was no change but the maester thought that was a hopeful sign."

"I don't want Brandon to die." Tommen quietly said and Ilaria put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"He won't die," Damon said, trying to reassure the boy. "He will awake soon, I am sure of it."

"Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well, one of the hostages murdered by Aerys Targaryen" Jaime commented, his gaze becoming sharp for a moment before he looked at ease once again. That always seemed to happen when the slightest mention of the Mad King was brought up. Damon had tried to bring up the Mad King before, but Jaime always shut him down. "It seems to be an unlucky name."

Damon nearly choked on his bread when Jaime said that. Tommen tensed, his emerald eyes widening, and Ilaria glared at Jaime for his dense words. "Comforting words, brother." she said, her voice dripping with disdain at Jaime's nonchalance.

"Not so unlucky as all that, surely." Tyrion causally said, the servant coming back to the table with his and Tyrion's breakfast. Damon immediately began digging into his porridge.

Cersei paused, her cup stopping midway to her lips. "What do you mean?"

Damon never cared much for Cersei; the amount of conversations he had with Joffrey's mother can be counted on one hand, despite sharing the same lord father and his close friendship with her son. He cares for even less with how she always seems to glare at him, dark and dangerous. Her glare was nearly as frightening as Lord Tywin's.

"Why, only Tommen might get his wish." Tyrion said, giving his nephew a crooked smile. "The maester may think the boy might live yet."

Both Tommen and Myrcella gave a cheerful gasp, seeming happy at the good news. Ilaria's shoulders slumped in relief. But Damon could not focus on the joyful news, his gaze focused on Jaime and Cersei, and the frowns that settled on both of their faces.

Cersei and Jaime didn't look so happy at the news, sharing a dark look. It was moments like these that reminded Damon of how similar the two twins looked, with their golden curls and sharp gaze that only accentuated their green eyes. He is sure if Cersei binds her breasts and cuts her hair, she could be mistaken for Jaime, and if Jaime grew hair as long as Cersei's and wore a dress, he could be mistaken for his sister. The only true difference between the twins was the sword by Jaime's hip and the crown resting on Cersei's head.

Cersei quickly removed her gaze from her twin, opting to glance at her cup instead. "That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain."

Ilaria frowned. "He may wake up, perhaps that's why these old gods let him linger."

"What were the maester's exact words?" Jaime asked, his face becoming unreadable as a pit of nerves began to form in Damon's stomach. _Seven Above if you can hear,_ he prayed, his stomach turning into twists and knots. _Tell me that Jaime has nothing to do with this._

"He thinks if the boy was going to die, he would have done so already." Tyrion replied. "It's been four days."

"Will Bran get better, Uncle?" Myrcella sweetly asked, with concern written all over her face.

"His back is broken, little one, and the fall shattered his legs as well." Tyrion gently said to his niece. "They keep him alive with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he wakes, he'll be able to eat real food, but he'll never likely walk again."

 _A cripple?_ It was only days ago when Damon saw Bran mock sparing with Tommen. The bread began to taste sour in his mouth as he realized that Bran will never be a knight. He could not imagine losing the sight of his legs, never being able to pick up a sword again. He would rather be dead.

"He'll be a cripple? Poor boy." Ilaria muttered before turning her head to her nephew and niece. "Let this be a lesson, Myrcella, Tommen, don't go climbing on crumbling towers."

Jaime snorted and Ilaria sent a glare his way. Jaime raised his hands in a mock surrender. "Apologizes."

Cersei spoke, ignoring both of them. "If he wakes, is that likely?"

"The gods alone know and the maester certainly hopes." Tyrion honestly told her. "I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase the beast away, it returns once again. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise and poor Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart started to beat stronger."

 _What happens when Bran finally fades away?_ Damon wondered. _Will that wolf of his still howl? Or will it seek vengeance?_ His fingers tightened around his spoon.

Cersei shuddered. "There is something unnatural about those animals, they are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us."

"You'll have a hard time stopping them, sister." Jaime said. "They follow those girls everywhere."

"Are you leaving soon then?" Tyrion asked.

"Soon," Damon echoed, half-heartedly focusing on the conversation. But he could only think about the lingering glances between Jaime and Cersei, and Bran's howling wolf. "Soon, I pray.

Ilaria frowned at Tyrion's comment. "What do you mean we? Are you not coming?"

"Benjen Stark is returning to the Night's Watch with his brother's bastard. I have a mind to go with them and see this Wall we have all heard so much about."

Ilaria scoffed. "All you'll see is thieves, rapers, and even more snow. Your balls will be frozen by the time you decide to make your leave off that icy wasteland."

"Unless you plan on taking the black, sweet brother." Jaime laughed.

Tyrion snorted. "What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the wall and piss off the edge of the world."

Ilaria laughed at Tyrion's words while Cersei stood up, glaring at her younger brother. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come." she commanded, making her way out of the morning room with her children trailing behind her.

"Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death." Jaime said once his twin and her children were gone, no amusement lingering in the green eyes of his. Damon wondered if Jaime would like for Lord Eddard to stay behind, but he could not be sure. Sometimes Jaime would speak of Lord Eddard with venom, but other times that venom would turn in a bitter admiration.

"He will if the King commands it." Ilaria pointed out. "He's a man of honor who follows his king, not that you know much about that."

"And Robert will command it." Tyrion states, ignoring Ilaria's snide insult as Jaime glares at her. "There is nothing Lord Stark can do in any case."

"He could end his torment." Jaime suggested. "I would if it were my son, it would be a mercy."

"It is good that you have no sons." Damon mumbled, earning a curious stare from Jaime. If they were alone and if he had more courage, Damon would ask Jaime what Bran has done to earn his ire.

Ilaria glanced at her Damon warily before turning her head to Jaime. "I warn you to keep these thoughts to yourself, Jaime, I'm sure Lord Stark won't take too kindly to them."

Jaime ignored her. "Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple, a grotesque. Give me a good clean death."

"Try not to look so downridden at the news of young Brandon's survival, despite him being a grotesque." Ilaria dryly said. "A child surviving such an ordeal is usually a reason for celebration, not a cause for this dour look you have written on your face."

"Speaking for the grotesques," Tyrion said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."

Jaime smiled, turning his attention to Tyrion. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."

Damon abruptly stood up, having heard enough. "I'm not hungry anymore." he muttered, leaving the table before any of his siblings could object. _Seven Above, if you can hear me,_ he prayed, _let Bran pass away peacefully._ Perhaps Jaime and Cersei has naught to do with Bran's fall but if they did, it would be better for the boy to pass. It would be better even if they didn't, being a cripple is no life to life. Still, shame washed over him for even thinking about Bran dying.

"What is there to say? The boy fell from climbing a tower that looked as if it would collapse if you put a feather on the roof." Ilaria said, resuming the previous conversation.

"As Ilaria said," Damon heard Jaime say before he made his exit out of the Guest House. "The boy fell climbing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first damon pov how was it? damon is supposed to be more mellow and easy going than ilaria, and generally kind of more passive.
> 
> he also sort of knows about cersei and jaime (with him being jaime's squire and being around jaime a lot, and with how jaime and cersei aren't subtle at all) but it freaks him out so much that he kinda ignores it and hopes it goes away all on it's own.


	3. ILARIA LANNISTER II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am not going back to the Red Keep with you."
> 
> Ilaria scowled. "Are you still continuing with that folly? Do you realize what lies beyond the wall?"
> 
> Tyrion slumped into his seat, lifting the wine to his lips. "Whores, thieves, rapers, and the lot." he drawled on. "Yes, you reminded me of that quite often."
> 
> "And grumpkins," Ilaria said. Her lips curved into a smile. "You mustn't ever forget the feared grumpkins."

**"PEOPLE SPEAK WELL OF LORD STARK,"** Ria said, absentmindedly playing with the sleeves of her gown. "They call him dutiful and honorable."

Ilaria looked up from her book, gently closing it and placing it down on the wooden desk as Ria sat on the chair besides her. She had not even heard Ria come from behind her, so focused on her readings. That, and how Ria walks as quietly as a cat, silent and never heard. She had half a mind to place bells around Ria's wrists so the other girl would stop surprising everyone with her soft footsteps.

"Is he?" Ilaria wondered, sinking into her seat. Despite the library of Winterfell being scarcely populated, she kept her voice low. "Honorable?"

When Ria had told her that Lord Stark hadn't outright refused King Robert's offer of being the Hand like she had expected and that he accepted instead, she instructed Ria to use her skills to find out whatever she could on Stark and his daughters, as they would be the ones accompanying them to King's Landing. All she knew of Lord Stark is that he was fostered in the Vale alongside Robert and that he had no great love for her family. The man was not known for holding the Lannisters in high regard, and she wanted to know if he would come to be a nuisance to her family; for that, she was determined to be prepared for.

"He has a bastard, hardly so honorable." Ria said, disgust seeping into her voice. Ria had very little respect for those who discard their vows, whether they be wedding vows or something far more important. "Hardly so dutiful either."

"Men have bastards. They rarely stay loyal to their wives' bed." Ilaria pointed out. Eddard Stark having a bastard was hardly an insult against him, not when so many men of his status do the same. It was almost to be expected; especially from the man Robert had named his closest friend. At least the friendship between the stoic Lord Stark and the boisterous Robert began to make sense. "The King is a prime example."

"He raises his bastard alongside his trueborn children, under his wife's eyes. At least the King has enough sense not to do that."

Ilaria snorted, in a very unladylike manner. "My sister would kill any bastard of the King's if he was foolish enough to bring them to court, and that is why he never has."

She felt a pang of pity for Lady Stark; if what Ria said was true, then she would be forced to see the evidence of her husband's infidelity each day. Even Cersei was not insulted in such a way by Robert, though it was in part of how badly Cersei would react. Not that Ilaria would think that she would have a better reaction if any husband of hers tried to raise his bastards alongside her own trueborn children.

"If I were Lady Stark, I would have shipped off the bastard as soon I could." Ilaria declared. She would not be cruel to any of her husband's bastards but she would not abide by their presence either. "I would not be able to abide by such an insult."

Ilaria twisted the rings on her fingers, bringing her focus on the task on her mind. Stark's bastard is not what she cares about, but how Lord Stark would fare in King's Landing. Despite his one instance of infidelity, people spoke well of him. "Ria, what sort of Hand do you think he will make?"

Ria shrugged, still playing with the sleeves of her gown. "I don't know. Perhaps he will curb the King's worse tendencies like Jon Arryn did."

 _Like Jon Arryn tried to do,_ Ilaria nearly said. The late Lord Arryn had an abundance of influence over Robert and yet, he could not curb the King's worse tendencies. If he could, the Crown would not be so deeply in debt to her lord father. It was good Robert was married to Cersei and made her queen, otherwise Tywin Lannister might make a repeat of the Rains of Castamere with how slow Robert is to pay the debts.

At best, maybe Lord Stark could curb Robert's money-spending and whoring, and govern over the realm as Lord Arryn had. At worse, he will be an inconvenient annoyance as Lord Arryn tended to be, which is something that her family will have to endure.

Ilaria the silver band around her pinkie finger, her thoughts drifting to Joffrey's betrothed. "And what type of queen do you think Sansa would make?"

Ria tilted her head. "I thought you said that marriage would never go through?"

"I didn't think Lord Stark would accept being Hand either." Ilaria dryly smiled. "I can be wrong, even if rarely."

"She's a sweet girl. The commons will adore her and the nobles will find her to be the shining example of what a lady should be."

Ilaria bristled; she already knew that. She had spoken to Sansa, even if it was sparingly. The girl was very well-mannered and gentle, so very unlike Cersei that Ilaria is unsure of what sort of queen Sansa would make. "Is she smart?"

Ria paused. "She's a child. How smart could she really be?"

Ilaria rolled her eyes at the unhelpful words. "Thank you, Ria, you can go." she commanded and Ria stood up, making her way to leave. "It's a surprisingly quaint castle, you should explore it."

Quaint was not the proper word Ilaria would use, the castle was far more magnificent than that. Though she loathed to admit it, the more days Ilaria spent in the sturdy stronghold of Winterfell, the more she could see its glory surpassed that of the Red Keep, and almost Casterly Rock too. The castle was much bigger than she thought a stronghold of the North ought to have been, with massive grey walls that encircled the castle, disguising how large it actually was. Inside the walls, the complex was composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces, each of which she found surprisingly warm; it was from the hot springs that Winterfell was built upon, Ilaria had learned from Sansa Stark.

Winterfell was not as large as Casterly Rock, nor did it have any of its grand splendor. There were no golden drapes hung over the windows or erected statues of roaring lions. The beauty of Winterfell was much more subtle, more grey than gold and strangely more intimate despite its size. Melting snowflakes adorned the outer walls of the castle; the summer snow still drifted down to the ground, coating it like a white blanket, just like it had when she first arrived, nearly two weeks prior. _The cold is a cruel and horrible beast,_ she had decided, _but the snow is so beautiful._

While Ilaria was not too prideful to admit that Winterfell's beauty surpassed that of Casterly Rock — at least in the privacy of her own mind — but the winter castle had to be one of the most boring strongholds she had ever had the displeasure of staying in. There hadn't seemed to be much for her to do, besides mingle with the other noble ladies and join Myrcella's embroidery circle; a task that only left her with bloodied fingers and crooked stitches.

Her ladies had failed to entertain her, as the two of them seemed to be occupied with their own affairs. Ria was busying herself with tasks that Ilaria had delegated to her. Emilee would oftentimes stay at Ilaria's side, though the distant look in her azure eyes made her seem as if she were miles away. She had not taken well to the cold, complaining even more than Cersei and Joffrey combined, and she would only half-listen to what Ilaria would say. So, Ilaria sent her away to wander about, not having the slightest care to deal with whatever thoughts plagued Emilee's empty head. And truth be told, she would rather speak with her brothers than her ladies anyways.

However, Tyrion spent his time irritating Cersei with his mere presence, and spent even _more_ time getting to know the whores of Winter Town, leaving little to no time for Ilaria. Damon spent all afternoons in the courtyard, repeatedly hitting some stuffed funny, or with Joffrey, both sounding so very unappealing to her. She couldn't possibly have cared less about spending time with her half-sister, though she would have rather dealt with Cersei's sharp comments than Jaime's indifference or amusement. Tommen seemed to be the only one of her blood who wished to remain at her side all day long, but as much as she adored her nephew, there was only a certain amount of time you could play with a boy of six before you felt as though you were going insane.

She thought of going to explore the castle to pass the time, as she used to do so each time her lord father took to other lord's strongholds when she was young, but she was of six-and-ten years now — a woman grown — and she had responsibilities to tend to. There was no time for such childish antics.

Ilaria had decided to settle in the library instead, a large hall in the Library Tower — _a fitting name,_ she had chuckled to herself. The stone structure was almost as tall as that of the Broken Tower, and held a stonework staircase that wound about its exterior, with enough steps to make it exhausting to climb. However, the climb was worth it; to see the dozens of shelves nailed to the grey walls, showing off books as ancient as the Age of Heroes lining certainly made up for the soreness of her legs. The library was quiet, with only a few lonely souls fluttering about. It was precisely the way Ilaria enjoyed to spend her mornings; hundreds of books at her disposal and very few people to bother her with any nonsense.

She opened the book she was reading before Ria came; a large blue book with words she could not understand written on the spine. The blue book might have been older than the legend of Bran the Builder itself — the pages were yellow and looked as though they could crumble into dust any moment, and the once-black ink faded and turned grey. Half of the book was in the Common Tongue, the other half written in the Old Tongue of the North. She found that most of the books in Winterfell's library, especially the older ones that Ilaria was most interested in, were written in the Old Tongue, the language of winter.

Ilaria prided herself on being fluent in nearly half a dozen languages, much more than the average highborn or perhaps even maester would know, but the Old Tongue was not one of them. At best, she could stutter out a few words with a horrid accent and make sense of a few sentences, but not enough to read or speak with ease.

So she ignored the scribbles written in the Old Tongue and focused on the words she could understand. Though, little of it made sense by itself.

The words seemed to speak of the Long Night, from the mentions of the Lost Hero and the Land of Always Winter. Ilaria knew little of the legend of the Long Night; she only knew that it was a mythical war that was raged against ice demons and that is why the Wall was raised, to guard against the monsters. Her Uncle Gerion used to tell her tales of the Long Night but she never paid much attention.

 _It's about gremlins and grumpkins,_ Ilaria thought, duly flipping the page to a faded drawing of a weirwood tree. _I should give this book to the Lord Commander, so the Night's Watch could defend the realm from the wicked little creatures. It's as useful as what they are doing now._ She snorted at her own thought, earning a strange look from a elderly man who was cleaning the shelves. Ilaria gave him an awkward smile before ducking her head and focusing on the parchment.

"Hello Ilaria," Emilee collapsed into the seat that Ria was sitting on, moments before she left. "I saw Ria as I was coming in." she said, breaking the silence that Ilaria has so dearly adored. "What were you two whispering about?"

Ilaria sighed, closing her book once again. "Nothing, Emilee." she muttered, glancing at Emilee, who was sneaking bites of a yellow-colored bread from the pocket of her skirt.

Ilaria's stomach rumbled; she had skipped the morning meal with her family in favor of the library and regretfully missed eating the cold porridge that they were provided with. Not that she missed much, the food in the North was so bland and deprived of taste, more cold than hot, and the seasonings she usually enjoyed were nonexistent. Porridge and bread were the only food she could stand to eat without gagging.

"How are your studies?" Emilee asked though a mouthful of bread.

Ilaria rolled her eyes at her friend's lack of manners. "I am learning a lot about grumpkins or…" her eyebrows furrowed. "I think I am? But never mind that, where have you been all day."

"Up until an hour ago, I have been comfortably sleeping."

"You've been sleeping? It past noon, for Seven's sake." Ilaria shook her head in mock disappointment. Emilee has always been rather lax in her duties but she has never been one to sleep in so late. "You should be more like Ria."

Emilee scoffed. "I would have woken sooner if I had been able to fall asleep sooner. But alas, I was hassled by a mad woman who besieged my bed and constantly kicked me in her sleep, all because of a few nightmares." she grumbled, causing Ilaria to reddened.

Ever since they arrived in Winterfell, she has been bombarded with dreams of blood or sleepless nights. She eventually took company in sharing a bed with Emilee, as they did when they were children, with the thought that if she must remain awake at night, she should do so with a companion.

"And what is Ria doing that I should too?" Emilee asked.

"Being useful." Ilaria retorted. "I ought to dismiss you from my service, you do nothing to help with me with all my duties."

Emilee raised an eyebrow, a bemused smile lingering on her lips. "How many times have I heard that threat? Besides, I do a great many things for you."

"Like?"

"I am a ball of light in your constant dour and gloom, Ilaria. You should be thankful for me, or I'm afraid that you might never learn to laugh!"

Ilaria rolled her eyes, snickering. "You are very right. Do you know you are my favorite person in the world?" she mockingly said over her giggles.

"Well you are not mine, that title goes to Rosamund." Emilee said. Rosamund was Emilee's younger sister and Myrcella's handmaiden. "At least she knows how to have fun and not spend hours hidden in her chambers reading musty books. What is that about anyways? And do not say grumpkins; that is hardly a helpful answer."

"It's about an old wives' tale; the Long Night."

"I think I have heard of such a name before. What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Ilaria glared at the pages. The one thing she loved about books is how they tend to clarify but this one only confuses the mind. "What in the all the _Seven Hells_ is this nonsense?"

The elderly man cleaning one of the shelves turned to look at her, seeming thoroughly scandalized. " _Language_ ," he hissed. "Do not take the gods' name in vain."

Ilaria reddened. "Apologizes," she muttered as Emilee started laughing, glowering at the old man. He eventually let out a disdainful huff before turning and leaving. By then, Ilaria had decided she had enough of the library of Winterfell, full of books she struggled to understand.

She picked up her cloak and held it tightly to her chest, standing up from her chair. It was wrong of her to take the book and she knew there was a chance that she could be caught, but what was one old book amongst thousands? Ilaria presumed that no one would notice, and if someone did, she was a bloody Lannister — what would they possibly do to _her_? "Place this in my chambers, I will read it later." she said, sliding the cloak to Emilee.

Emilee groaned. "Yes, make me steal the book." she complained, but took the cloak nonetheless. "Oh! I forgot to tell you, your brother, Ser Loren, has decided to write you a letter and send it here."

Ilaria's eyes widened. _She has been here long enough and she did not say a word of such!_ "Emilee!" she hissed. Loren hardly writes letters to her and for him to do so, he must have urgent news to share. "Is it urgent?"

Emilee shrugged, taking the rolled up parchment from another pocket and waving it in the air. The seal was broken. "I cannot say, but it is interesting."

"Give me it." Ilaria snatched the letter out of Emilee's hands, quickly opening it.

_Ilaria,_

_How are the frozen trenches of the North treating you? Not very well, I imagine. I've been told that the ice is cold enough to make your fingers fall right off. It makes the Reach seem far better in comparison, though its people leave much to be desired._

_But as not to waste valuable parchment with useless pleasantries, I will speak plainly. I have decided to finish my travels, the ones Father had named the whims of a child, and make my way home. Here on, I plan to remain at the Rock, to the great pleasure of many and displeasure too._

Ilaria raised her eyebrows. It is strange to think that Loren will finally settle down at the Rock, not when he has been away from the Rock longer than she has. Her twin was sent to the Deep Den to be a cupbearer to Lord Lewys Lydden when he was nine years of age, and then to Ashmark to be a squire for Ser Addam Marband. Loren was only knighted three moons ago, after he won the joust in Lord Banefort's tourney. He immediately made travels to the Reach, with plans to visit Dorne and eventually the Free Cities of Essos. She had not thought that her brother would give up on his travels so soon.

_I wish for you to leave King's Landing too, and come back for the Rock. You've been in that shit stinking of a city for too long. And Father, I know he has begun looking for betrothals for you, he has for a while. I plan to speed up that process for you, so I am assured that your future is secure. You should be here to place your own thoughts on the matter. You should be here anyways, the Rock is our home._

_Loren._

Ilaria frowned, her lips parting as she read the rest of the letter. _Marriage?_ She was not ready to be anyone's wife. She needs time to prepare, at least a year to prepare herself to be a wife of a man who will possibly be older than her and a stranger to her. She needs time to make sure she won't have a marriage like her half-sister's. She's not a fool, she knew her father should have looked for betrothals years ago and she should probably be wed, but it's still all too soon for her. Suddenly, she can feel the blood rush to her head and her heart quickening it's pace.

By the laws of Westeros, she became a woman grown when she reached her sixteen nameday, nearly six moons ago. There are women who were wed and bedded when they were years younger than her, such as her own Aunt Genna or her Aunt Dorna, both only fourteen when they wed. But Ilaria had always thought she had time before any such decisions needed to be made. Emilee was two years her elder and still unwedded, so were many of her older cousins who had not donned their maiden cloaks yet. Her own mother was of two-and-twenty years when she wed.

And Loren, he must be up to something to come back to the Rock so soon and to be speaking of betrothals for her. Her brother was always laughing and playing the merry fool, he never cared so much for politics. And if he suddenly decided to take an interest, Ilaria does not plan to be one of his pawns. For a moment, she feared that Loren might make a bad match. It was possible, her grandfather made a terrible match for her Aunt Genna and Loren was not without his moments of stupidity. Then she decided against that; Loren would know that their father would never allow that to happen, and he must know that she would make life miserable if he made such an error.

Ilaria's grip tightened around the edges of the parchment before crumbling it entirely. She had half a mind to burn the letter and pretend as if she never saw it.

Emilee's azure gaze flickered to the letter, her face unreadable. "What will your response be?"

"I don't know yet." Ilaria darkly said, handing the crumbed letter back to Emilee. "Put this letter in my chambers too."

No one gave her a second look, not even the old man who scolded her, as she left the library, leaving as quietly as she came. She aimlessly walked around the wide castle, letting her feet guide her.

It would be best not to think too deeply of Loren's words. She doesn't even know if they are true, her brother has always been so fickle and so easily distracted. Surely, he will remain at Casterly Rock for two moons before becoming so bored his skin starts to crawl and he takes his leave. As for the idea of her own marriage, her father will tell her his plans when he does.

 _There is no need to worry myself into a frenzy,_ she thought as she slipped through the gates of the godswood. She hadn't even realized that she walked there. The godswood of Winterfell looked just as eerie under the bright blue sky as it did under the coat of darkness. The weirwood was still weeping red tears, mournful as ever, and the hot springs glistened under the gaze of the sun. Despite the spectral of the godswood, it wasn't as frightening as Ilaria remembered it to be.

She did not ponder over it long. Her attention was directed towards Joffrey and his favorite pet, the Hound, standing over the hot springs. Ilaria frowned, knowing that Joffrey should have been getting ready for _another_ hunt that Robert demanded — a consolation prize for the hunt that was cut short with the news of Bran's fall. She slowly walked over to them, her presence still unnoticed by her nephew.

"Joffrey?" Ilaria called, startling the younger boy and making him stumble over his own feet, nearly falling into the hot springs. If the Hound was surprised by her sudden appearance, he didn't show it, and remained standing still and glum as he always did.

"Ilaria!" Joffrey exclaimed, steading himself. "How is my dear aunt this fine morning?"

"Fine," Ilaria curtly replied, regarding Joffrey with a wary suspicion. If her nephew was being polite or strangely cheerful, then something must be wrong. Or perhaps there was some poor stable boy wandering around after endearing hours of abuse from Joffrey. There was nothing that her nephew enjoyed more than pestering the help. "What are you doing here?"

Joffrey shrugged. "Boredom. This frozen wasteland is unbelievably dull."

Ilaria resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her nephew's lack of manners, and instead turned her attention to the Hound. "Escort the prince to his chambers so he may get ready for the hunt."

The Hound didn't move. "I don't take orders from you."

"You're my father's bitch passed off to my sister and nephew, so yes, you do take orders from me," Ilaria snapped before a smile so sweet that it had to be false, was placed on her lips. She had no love for the men of House Clegane; the whole lot of them were unpredictable brutes. "A good mutt knows how to follow orders."

"I'm not going to that stupid hunt," Joffrey declared. "Not with these savages. They're more beasts than men, especially those Starks who keep vicious wolves as _pets_."

Ilaria would admit that the men and women of the north were strange, especially the Starks who kept beasts so dangerous as pets. But, she also knew the importance of keeping diplomacy between the south and the north; something Joff's words did not do. "Mind your mouth. Such words can do great damage," she warned her nephew. "Get going before the hunt leaves without its prince."

Joffrey scowled. "You can't tell me what to do! I am the crown prince!"

"And your father is the _king_ ," Ilaria hissed, stomping over to Joffrey to stand face-to-face with him, right over the hot springs. "If he requests your presence, you will do as you are told and _go_."

But still, Joffrey stubbornly shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "You can't make me."

"I am not some simpering lady or cowardly knight that you can bully," Ilaria reminded him. The consequences of speaking back to the crown prince to an ordinary man did not affect her — not when she was the said prince's aunt and Tywin Lannister's daughter. "I am your elder and your aunt, which does grant me the ability to tell you what to do when you are acting like a spoiled child."

"Watch your mouth!" Joffrey yelled. "I will not hunt with those brutes who have no sense of respect."

Ilaria rolled her eyes, faintly recalling the tale her younger brother told her of Robb Stark defeating Joff in the training yard. She did not witness the argument but Damon told her all about it. _His pride is wounded,_ she concluded, _this idiot thinks being beaten means a lack of respect._ "Do not tell me this is because Robb Stark bested you in swordplay all those weeks ago?"

"He did not!" Joffrey shouted. "We didn't even fight, that idiot master-of-arms would only allow wooden swords, and I only fight with real steel."

"You did not lose but instead chose not to fight at all, and that is far more craven," Ilaria scoffed. "At least there can be honor in losing."

"What would you know about fighting?"

"More than the likes of you," she said dryly. For a moment, she wished Damon was there with her. Damon always had a way of coaxing Joffrey. "Unless you want all these savages _and_ the king to think that you are a foul hunter with nowhere the prowess of your father, you will go to the hunt and put on the best show you can. _Understood_?"

Joffrey did not reply at first, only glared more fiercely. "I will be king one day. You should mind what you say to me."

"I hope the day you become king I won't have to mind my words, but every word of kindness or gratitude would be genuine," Ilaria said before her lips curled into a smirk. "Not because you are king, but because you will have finally grown out of being the pathetic, spoiled, and arrogant boy you are."

Joffrey's face flushed red, turning his cheeks blotchy and his emerald eyes aflame like wildfire. He lunged forward, pushing Ilaria into the hot spring before turning around and stomping away. Ilaria yelped, falling into the shallow pool with the splash. " _BRAT_!" she screamed, groaning as she stood up, now soaked. She let out a string of swears, so foul that her childhood septa would have boxed her ears.

But Joffrey was long gone and did not hear her swears.

The Hound began to laugh, hysterical almost, at Ilaria's misfortune. "Do you need help?" he asked through bouts of laughter.

Ilaria was not nearly as amused. "Just go and make sure my idiot nephew doesn't get himself killed from the walk between here and his chambers."

"As you command," the Hound sarcastically said, before turning around to leave, still laughing at Ilaria's misfortune.

" _Arse_ ," Ilaria snarled but no one was there to hear her. She sighed, climbing her way out of the hot spring — which was surprisingly warm despite the snow drifting from the sky and lingering on the grass. _Truly lives up to its name,_ she idly thought as her feet touched the cold ground. The cold air stung her flesh, worsened by the wet fabric that now cling to her skin. She shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms for some flicker of warmth.

It was all Joffrey's fault — had he not pushed her, she wouldn't be shivering! Now she has to make her way back to her temporary chambers, covered in water and shaking like a wet rat. _When I get my hands on that halfwit prince,_ Ilaria silently glowered, her teeth chattering, _not even his prized mutt can protect him!_

At least Tyrion would certainly get a laugh out of this.

 _There is no point in moping over it now,_ Ilaria thought glumly. She'd scold her nephew later — in front of his father, so Joffrey would feel as embarrassed as she does right now. The boy was always trying to impress Robert, to gain his approval. It was pathetic; Robert was a fat and stupid drunk and Ilaria found it pointless to want to impress the likes of him. She knows it vexed Cersei to no end, how much Joffrey wished to be like his father.

Ilaria grabbed the branch of a nearby tree, trying walking over the lump of tangled roots and mud besides the tree. But the mud was far more slippery than she thought and the roots were too tangled, and it didn't take much for her to lose her footing and slip, snapping the tree branch as she fell to the hard ground, her left foot turning inward.

"Seven Above." Ilaria groaned, a burning sensation lingering by her left foot.

She forced herself to sit up, cautiously taking off her slipper and touching her ankle, now slowly swelling and turning into dark shades of red and purple. Her touch only caused her ankle to hurt more; she hissed and immediately retracted her hand as if it was posion. She tried to stand, only to immediately collapse and the burning sensation became aflame. It was only when she sat very still and pressed her cold hand against her swollen ankle, did she find some relief.

Ilaria closed her eyes; when she gets her hands on Joffrey, she would certainly adorn the name kinslayer.

The loud snap of a twig forced her to lose focus of her plans to throttle Joffrey. She slumped her back against the tree, slowly moving to the side and turning her head to see the new presence in the godswood. The man's back was turned to her, his face solely focused on the weirwood tree. She could not see his face, only his long, brown hair that had begun to gray. The man was whistling an unfamiliar tune as he began to pace in front of the constantly mourning weirwood tree.

Ilaria opened her mouth to call out for help… before abruptly closing it. If she calls out for the man's help, then he will have to drag her to the very populated Winterfell as she is; shivering, limping, and wet to the bone. For so many to see her in such a vulnerable state, for so many strangers to see… how embarrassing that would be! She wouldn't be able to show her face for the rest of the trip, much less anywhere in the North ever again. It would be better for her to wait until it's darker, her ankle would not be hurting so much and she could probably make her way back to her own chambers, by _herself_.

She pulled herself away, hiding behind the tree once again; the uninviting cold and her injured ankle seemed a kinder fate to deal with than having her pride wounded.

The man soon left, still whistling and the godswood became sparsely populated once again. But people still visited the weirwood tree. More men and women came and went, each time kneeling in front of the tree and quietly saying their prayers before leaving. Each time, Ilaria would hide behind her tree, holding her breath so she was as silent as she could be. Every time she heard a snapped twig or the crunch of leaves, she hopes it is one of her ladies, or her siblings, who she could call for help. It never is; only northernmen visited the strange godswood and prayed to the crying heart tree. Ilaria, for her part, did all she could not to look at the weirwood. The weeping face of the old gods still unsettles her and she cares little for the judgements they must make of her. It became easier as the sky darkened and their glare wasn't so bright.

Ilaria lumped bits of dirty snow on top of her swollen ankle as the bright blue hue of the sky slowly darken until it was hazy orange. The snow was more mush than ice and it was mixed with mud, and perhaps not the best thing to place on her wounded ankle. But the cold touch gave her momentary relief. Her ankle felt as if it were on set ablaze and the icy snow seemed to be able to cool the flame and lessen the pain until it became a numb throbbing. The only problem was how the snow seemed to shiver each and every one of her bones.

Ilaria groaned; it had been hours and she was freezing and starving. The sun was setting, her clothes were dry, and the pain in her ankle lessened, even if it was still purple and painfully swollen. Perhaps it was a good time to make her way back to the castle. There shouldn't be many people wandering around, not when it was time for dinner.

She shakily stood up, gripping the tree and putting all the pressure on her uninjured foot. But the moment she tried to put a light amount of weight on her injured foot, all the pain came tumbling back and a stream of swears left her lips.

There was a loud bark, forcing Ilaria to freeze. She prayed that one of the kennel dogs came loose from the kennels. Her prayers remained unanswered as they have been all day, and a voice was accompanied by another swift bark. "Is anyone there?" the voice called out, the sound of crunching leaves following him.

"No!" Ilaria yelled, pulling herself up by the branches of the oak tree. The crunching of leaves became louder and she wondered if the old gods were finding amusement in her misery. "No one is here!" she jerked her injured foot upwards, the side of her ankle being caught by a loose branch of the tree sticking out, drawing a long line of crimson red. A string of curses left her lips as she fell back down, clutching her ankle, that was now bleeding along with being purple and swollen.

Robb Stark gaped when he saw her and his eyes widened even more when he saw her injured foot. He must have just come back from the hunt, still dressed in dark greens and a wool cloak draped over him. His wolf, one that each of the Stark children seemed to have, was standing a few feet from him. The wolf barked again, before scurrying behind the weirwood tree. "Are you alright?" Robb asked as Ilaria groaned.

She was certain now; the old gods must enjoy mocking her inside the warmth of their trees.

Ilaria closed her eyes, clenching her fists. "Yes?" she whimpered, the sharp pain lingering.

"No, you're not," Robb muttered, leaning forward to help Ilaria adjust on the cold ground. "What happened? What are you doing here?"

 _Playing the part of the fool,_ she bitterly thought. "Why are you here?" Ilaria asked instead, digging her nails into the soft snow.

Robb gave her an incredulous look. "It's godswood, I come here to pray."

Ilaria reddened at the obvious answer. "Now that we have that cleared up, I should—" she tried to stand up, hissing at the pain. "Mother Above…"

Robb placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll take you to Maester Luwin, he can help you."

"I don't need your help!" Ilaria hissed, her face heating up. She jerked her shoulder away from his loose grip.

"Stop being stubborn!" Robb exclaimed, staring at her with exasperation. "Look at yourself, you are bleeding and shivering and you cannot walk."

She hadn't need to look at herself, she knew Robb spoke the truth. But it was embarrassing to be found in such a state by someone she knows little of and who cares little of her wellbeing. It was even more humiliating to admit she needed help after avoiding any for hours. Ilaria shook her head. "I can go by myself."

"Just let me help you," Robb said, shrugging off his cloak and handing it to her. "And here."

Ilaria looked at the raggedy cloak, unimpressed. "I don't need that."

"It's snowing, you must be cold." Robb pointed out. "I can see you shivering."

Ilaria tried to stop her trembling, glancing at the wool cloak once again. She sighed, taking it and placing it around her shoulders. Robb's furs did give her warmth, she would grudgingly admit. "Thank you, my lord," she muttered.

Robb helped her back up on her feet, allowing for her to wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean on him as they slowly walked out of the castle. If placing all her weight on him was a burden, Robb did not say. He did not say _anything_ , something Ilaria was deeply grateful for.

The maester's turrent was close to the one of the exit of the godswood — an exit unknown to Ilaria — hidden below the rookery and besides the hunter's gate. There were few people wandering around, as it was meal time. Most had to be in the Great Hall or their own chambers, feasting on the bland food Winterfell had to offer. Those who did see her gave her strange looks but had enough sense not to say anything. Though, she can imagine how quickly they would snicker about it to each other once she was gone.

The maester's turrent was empty, except for the presence of a small, old man with dull grey eyes and stringy white hair. He was thin and greying like every maester she has ever seen. Ilaria oft wondered if every young boy goes to the Citadel hail and healthy, only to come out old and frail. Luwin wore simple grey robes, so unlike velvet red robes with silky golden fastenings Pycelle, the Grand Maester, tends to wear. His chains were pulled tightly around his throat in the fashion of a choker, all the metals dull and rusting, except for the links made of Valyrian steel.

Luwin's eyebrows furrowed, lurching forward to help Robb place her on one of the wooden chairs. "What happened?" he asked as he moved a wooden stool to prop Ilaria's foot on.

"I fell." Ilaria muttered, removing her arm from Robb's shoulders as she settled in the uncomfortable chair. "And I hurt myself."

Luwin knelt by her foot, gently lifting up her swollen ankle and ignoring her hisses of pain. "You seem to have twisted your ankle," he frowned, taking a closer look. "Is that mud?"

"And snow, the cold ice was a relief."

"I'll bring a pail of water to wash the dirt and grime out." Luwin said, his frown deepening. "Blankets too, you must be so cold."

She was cold, but Robb's cloak gave her more warmth than she thought it could. It must be because of the rough wool, it seems to fare better against the cold than her silky dresses. Ilaria twisted the rings on her pinkie finger, biting the inside of her cheek as Luwin's thumb grazed the cut on her foot. "What about the cut? It must be very deep for it to cause me so much pain."

"My lady, this is not a deep cut. I doubt you will need any stitches, perhaps only a wrapping."

 _But it hurts so much,_ she thought, _how could it not be a deep wound?_ She gritted her teeth and nodded anyway, looking anywhere but her injured ankle. "Thank you, maester."

"But of course, Lady Ilaria." Luwin stood up, quickly wrapping the shallow cut on Ilaria's ankle with a strip of thin cotton cloth. He soon left after to get the pail of water, whispering something to Robb before he left.

Ilaria pulled the cloak tighter, glancing at Robb who, to her misfortune, did not leave with Luwin. "You can go."

Robb ignored her. "How did you twist your ankle?"

"Why do you care?" she snapped, sinking into her seat. "I fell."

The lie tasted sour leaving her tongue. This entire horrible day was because of Joffrey deciding to be spiteful and petty, traits very unbecoming of a future king. She would gladly throttle the half wit prince if she could and push him into a pool of water if she could.

But as angry as she was at her nephew, it would do no good insulting him in front of strangers; especially his betrothed's elder brother. Her embarrassment already happened, there was no need to place it on Joffrey and by extension, her own family. The relief it would give her would be momentary but the whispers it would bring would last longer. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. _The things I do for that brat._

Robb frowned. "You fell?"

"Yes, I fell. It seems that I am more clumsy than I thought."

"Very clumsy."

And uncomfortable silence fell over them, one that made Ilaria fidget. Robb still did not leave, leaning against the cluttered desk and not saying anything either. The silence lingered and pushed her nails even harder onto her palms, deep enough to create angry red lines. "I am usually far more graceful." she blurted out, breaking the horrid silence. "This is not a normal occurrence, I don't fall and hurt myself a lot, nor do I—"

"Hide in a godswood for hours?"

"I was _not_ hiding."

Robb raised his eyebrows. "Was I truly the first one who came by all day?"

"No, but—"

Robb interrupted her. "And you didn't call for help but tried to hide instead. You are…" his voice trailed off. "Stubborn."

Ilaria reddened. "It is not my proudest moment."

Robb ducked his head, snickering even as he tried to hide it by covering his mouth.

Ilaria frowned, deciding that she didn't like the boy heir. He might have had a sweet smile and eyes as blue as the hot springs, but he was _laughing_ at her. There was nothing she loathed more than being mocked. "It's not funny."

"It's not." Robb agreed but he was still widely grinning. "It is a little."

Ilaria rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. Robb's fault of course, as he had a rather contagious grin. Suddenly, she is reminded of their last conversation and the crude way she acted. Though, in her meager defense, she was foul from a sleepless night and she was snapping at everyone that day. Poor Iris got the brunt of her foul mood. Ilaria had given her handmaiden two purses of gold as an apology.

"Our last conversation," Ilaria started. "I was crude. I..."

Robb's smile faded away. "I had forgotten about that. I had other things occupying my mind."

Ilaria winched. "Bran's fall," she said, twisting the rings adorning her fingers. "My deepest condolences for your brother, it's truly awful what happened to him."

"Thank you," Robb replied, warily glancing at her. "Bran will wake up soon."

"I sincerely hope he does," Ilaria earnestly said. It was truly a horrible accident, what happened to Bran, and she truly hoped he would wake. She even went to the makeshift sept of Winterfell with Ria to pray to the Mother Above that Bran would wake, even if it meant he would be a cripple. It was better that he was alive and couldn't walk than dead. Brandon Stark was too young to die.

Robb didn't reply, only glancing down at his feet with an unreadable gaze in his eyes. "I should leave," he said, lifting his head. "I hope your ankle heals quickly."

Ilaria nodded and Robb was gone.

Ilaria closed her eyes, slumping against her seat. The maester's turret was warm and eerily quiet; there was no rustling of leaves or the quiet singing of the wind as there was in the godswood. This silence was soothing and it did not cause the hairs on her arms to stand.

It was not a silence that lasted long; the sound of a door slamming open broke it. Ilaria opened her eyes and jerked up, before settling back down once she saw Tyrion's concerned face.

"Ilaria," Tyrion said, closing the door behind him and walking forward. He stared at her injured foot. "I came across Maester Luwin, he told me how you were here."

"It's not a bad wound, it will heal." Ilaria said, wincing as she recalled how she got the injury. "I fell into the bloody hot springs and was in the godswood for hours with this horrid pain. But it will heal, only the respect I had for myself is permanently damaged."

Tyrion stared at her, his eyes darting back and forth between her face and her injured foot. A smile began to spread across his face, loud laughs escaping his mouth.

Ilaria scowled. "Oh, continue mocking me. It is not as if I am under immense amounts of pain."

Tyrion heeds her words and continues laughing. "How does this happen?" he asked through bouts of laughter, only pausing to catch his breath.

"A great deal of stupidity." she grumbled, pulling Robb's cloak even tighter against her.

"Yours?"

"Never." Ilaria fiercely said before her face faltered. "A little." she admitted.

"This is why I have not seen you all day." Tyrion asked, helping himself to the jug of wine on Luwin's desk. He poured himself a cup before sitting on the chair beside Ilaria's. "How have you been found only now? Is the godswood truly that isolated?"

"A few people came by, but my pride refused to let anyone see in such a state. Which, clearly failed."

Tyrion shook his head, still snickering. "Your pride is trying to kill you."

"I am beginning to have the same suspicion." Ilaria muttered. "I am sorry to have bothered you with this foolishness."

"I'm far from bothered." Tyrion said. "I would rather be here than the Great Hall, anyways. I do not think I like this place."

"Neither do I. It seems that the wolves do not like us, brother."

"Maybe they smell something rotten in us." Tyrion suggested. "I know I smell something queer whenever I stand next to Cersei."

"Whatever it is, I am glad to leave Winterfell soon." Ilaria said. She was even more anxious to leave as soon as possible, after her horrible day. "Even if it means I have to endure grievous amounts of traveling in a closed carriage. I am sure my coffin would feel less suffocating."

"I am not going back to the Red Keep with you."

Ilaria scowled. "Are you still continuing with that folly? Do you realize what lies beyond the wall?"

Tyrion slumped into his seat, lifting the wine to his lips. "Whores, thieves, rapers, and the lot." he drawled on. "Yes, you reminded me of that quite often."

"And grumpkins," Ilaria said. Her lips curved into a smile. "You mustn't ever forget the feared grumpkins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> typically castle libraries before the invention of the printing press wasn't very large and didn't have many books but since Winterfell canonically has a library tower for plot purposes the Starks collected a lot of books over thousands of years. most of them are seriously old and because there is no printing version, there is only one copy of most of the older books so ilaria stealing one is a big no-no.
> 
> by 16, ilaria should be betrothed but i figured tywin would play his cards and wait until he can get the best possible alliance like he did with cersei and since cersei married a king i doubt he will settle for anything less than a lord paramount's heir (like edmure or willas). the idea of marriage generally freaks her out so ilaria tries not to think of it too much 
> 
> also ilaria was out in the godswood for a good three/four hours, shivering and cold. bad news, she got sick with a nasty cold for the rest of the time in winterfell and couldn't yell at joffrey. good news, she had a very good reason to be holed up in her chambers instead of going out and facing embarrassment (which probably wouldn't be that bad but ilaria tends to blows things up by ten times).
> 
> next chapter is going to be valora's pov so we'll finally meet valora and loren.
> 
> my tumblr is tageryens-wp if you have any comments or questions!


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